


With Words of Fear Upon My Lips

by azryal



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, D/s themes, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Pregnant Sex, attempts at symbolism, some sexual torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azryal/pseuds/azryal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan has been called to serve Ragnar’s Gods. The path is dangerous and easily misunderstood. Ragnar refuses to let Athelstan be lost, and he demands that Athelstan let him help. Even though he would do it, regardless of Athelstan’s answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> At the end of Vikings episode 6, Athelstan is overwhelmed - whether it be a delayed reaction to his predicament, Odin’s hand upon his threads, or a simple case of too much drink and hallucinogenic plants - and help only comes from one person.
> 
> It picks up directly from the end of the episode.

Athelstan’s shout stunned them all.

They turned as one to watch the man collapse. He folded to the floor and covered his head with his arms, and he screamed. In stunned silence they sat, the rush of the fire suddenly loud as all movement and speech ended.

A breath. Another. Then the scream trilled higher, full of terror and agony…and stopped as abruptly as it started.

Floki was first to recover his wits. “No more weed for the priest,” he snickered into his cup. There was nervous tittering, a few scornful laughs, but no one else spoke.

Ragnar stood, ready to lead Athelstan away from the smoke and the crowd. As he set his weight upon his staff, a low murmur filled the room. He cast angry eyes about the hall but saw no lips moving. The murmur grew in pitch as he turned in a circle. “Who speaks? Who?” he demanded. When he faced The Seer, he saw the man’s gnarled finger outstretched.

“The gods speak, Ragnar Lothbrok.”

_“Seek fire…blood…teeth will tear and fill the moon…the serpent shall copulate with the wolf…in blood and fire his teeth shall gnaw upon the heart…the moon bleeds…all is ash…ash…blood…fire…the wolf does not burn…the wolf will lie with the serpent…”_

Athelstan was on his knees, back bent and shoulders drawn close. His eyes were shut tight and his mouth twisted in a grimace. He tore at his hair, his tunic, fighting and pulling at imagined bonds. The words came quickly and on a coarse whisper. It was loathsome, aberrant, twining about them all with jeering sibilance.

Ragnar rushed to him, dropping to the earth. “Athelstan, wake,” he commanded.

_“…blood and fire and teeth…copulation of the serpent…and only one shall live…”_

He took Athelstan’s arms and pulled him upright. “Athelstan!” Now he shook the man, hard enough to snap his head back and snap his teeth together. “Athelstan!”

“Mark his words, new earl. Your song will need them.” The Seer was so quiet Ragnar’s mind did not at once seize upon the meaning.

“My song?” he repeated when the import had breached the rampart of concern for his slave. He heard Lagertha gasp.

_“Fire and blood and teeth! The wolf will devour the moon and hold its heart in his jaws and all will be ash and blood and fire but the wolf it does not burn!”_

Athelstan thrashed as his voice rose and Ragnar had to drop back to avoid a blow. “Heed me priest! Answer my call!” he shouted, taking a firm grip on the man’s wrists. He twisted and pulled, pressing Athelstan’s back into his chest and trapping Athelstan with his own arms. “Help me!”

No one came to his aid. Athelstan began kicking, tossing his head as the words grew in power and strength. _“Fire and blood and teeth! The moon caught beneath the wolf’s paws!”_

Ragnar appealed to his people. “He is overcome by the smoke, nothing more. The day’s events have taxed his simple…his simple mind.” He paused, tilting away from Athelstan’s sudden lurch upwards. He was left with a mouthful of hair and the taste of sweat and smoke on his tongue. Still no one stepped forward to help. “Priest! Must I beat you? Answer me!”

“He is _seidr_ , Ragnar,” droned the Seer behind him. “They will not come.”

“He is _my_ _slave_!” Ragnar snarled.

Lagertha moved close enough to see, but still out of reach. Her face was clouded, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Kill him, Ragnar.”

“What?”

“You cannot,” the Seer countered.

“He’s cursed, husband. The longer you wait the harder it will be for you.”

“If he dies now, you will all be cursed.”

“He will thank you for it!”

_“Fire and teeth and blood…”_

“You cannot kill the chosen of the All Father.”

_“Wolf will devour the moon…”_

“He would rather die than carry this burden!”

“It is not his choice.”

Their argument continued over the din of Athelstan’s rambling, and, despite his struggles to subdue the man, Ragnar could see the shadows of his people as they fled the hall.

“ENOUGH!”

Even hindered by wounds still healing, Ragnar had strength a-plenty. He switched his hold on Athelstan’s wrists and pulled them up, up until they were nestled beneath the wings of Athelstan’s shoulder bones, until it would hurt. Gripping tight with one hand, he slapped the other over the man’s mouth. Athelstan’s lips continued to move against his palm but the sounds were muffled.

“I will not kill him, not now. Not ever. We will put him to bed and see him in the morning. It is drink and weed and stories that have overtaken him. Nothing more.”

Athelstan’s lips ceased their chanting. He quieted, slipping sideways to find his rest against Ragnar’s shoulder and panting against Ragnar’s neck. “Athelstan?” Ragnar called, soft.

“He has forgiven you so much. He will not forgive you this cruelty, husband,” Lagertha told him, shimmering wet track on her cheeks.

“Lagertha, help me get him to bed. Please.”

She turned away, followed by a weeping Gyda and wary Bjorn.

“Lagertha!” 

Athelstan’s lips were moving again, but it was his voice now, no longer the onerous growl it had been.

“Priest,” Ragnar said. “Can you hear me?”

Athelstan’s breath was hot, his face wet.

Ragnar removed his hand. “Athelstan?”

 

 ***** 

 

Voices. Bindings. _Pain._

The chains that held him immobile melted through Athelstan’s flesh, as would a hot sword through ice.

“Make it stop.”

Only the voices would not stop until he had said the words.

“God, please,” he begged. “Make it stop.”

_Speakofthefireofthewolfdyingmoondevouredwhole_

“Leave me! Leave me, demons!”

_Wolfandmooneatthefleshdrinktheblood_

“Stop! Stop please!” he cried. The burning sunk deeper, through skin and bone and soul.

_Speakthewordstellthewolfdrinktheblood_

He screamed and screamed and still he burned…

There was a moment of clarity, of quiet. His arms felt like they would be ripped from his shoulders.

“Athelstan!”

“Ragnar!” he gasped, tilting his head up. The man was closer than he’d thought, face so near that he could see the lines at the corners of Ragnar’s eyes.

_FiremoonteethandbloodwillbeswallowedwholethewolfthewolfTHEWOLF_

“The wolf! The wolf! Ragnar! The wolf!” All was darkness. Hot and stifling. He could feel the breath of the beast as it bent to his throat.

It was not teeth that hurt his face. Ragnar’s fingers were digging into the tender joints of his jaw. “You will be silent! Now!”

He whimpered. “I…I cannot…they will not cease…please...”

_Thewolfholdsthemooninitsteethitwillfeastonblood_

“Athelstan, you must listen. Your words have wrought dissent, the people think you cursed,” Ragnar was saying in his ear, too loud, too close. When he flinched away, Ragnar grabbed his hair and forced them face to face. “Do you hear? Do you see?”

_Bloodfirebloodteethhungerhungerhunger_

His shoulder popped, sending a lance of agony through his body. He froze. The hall came back into focus. “Oh,” he whispered, staring into the face of Floki. Ragnar’s hands still held him. Floki sat on his outstretched legs. “Oh, God. Take these demons from me, Lord.”

“They are loud, close, these voices, as if they dwell within your very skull,” Floki was saying. He reached out to hold Athelstan’s face. His touch was tender.

Athelstan nodded, straining, fighting the darkness. The voices.

“And there is pain?”

Ragnar’s grip tightened further and Athelstan leaned into it. “Yes, such as...as I could never have imagined.”

Floki’s thumbs traced over his eyes, spreading grit and ash. They moved up his nose, coming to a point just above the bridge, then back down to feather out over his cheeks. He felt marked, drawn upon, and tried to raise his hand to wipe away the stain. He could not, for Ragnor held his wrists as sure as iron.

“They are not demons, child.” Athelstan had never heard such softness. Not from Floki. “You hear _Nornir,_ tenders of The Great Ash and weavers of our tapestry. They have called you to service them.”

Athelstan shook his head. “No, I serve the Lord in Heaven, the One True God.”

Floki bent and kissed his forehead. His eyes were sad. “No longer.”

_Thewolfcallsforthemoonthemoonwillanswer_

“No. No!” Athelstan cried and began to struggle anew.

“They only wish for you to listen. Learn to hear them, and they will not hurt you.”

“No,” Athelstan sobbed, failing to shake himself free.

_Hungercriesforthemoonthewolfwilldevour_

“How can you know this?” Ragnar demanded, his free hand catching Floki’s wrist.

With a bark of laughter, the man answered. “You seek my words, Earl Lothbrok. From where do you think they come?”

_Themoonwillseekthewolffireandblood_

Wrenched once more by the pain in his arms, his shoulders, Athelstan sought Ragnar’s gaze. “Please, Ragnar. Make it stop.”

“I can ease it, for a time. You will not like it.” Floki’s eyes held no scorn, no mockery.

“Please. Anything.” The voices were growing once more. “Please…”

The man nodded, gaze lifting briefly. “Hold him. Do not let go.”

Ragnar strengthened his hold and Athelstan wanted to look at him, but could not turn. “Ragnar?” he whispered before Floki’s hand covered his mouth.

And pinched his nose.

_Drinkthebloodofthemoondrinkthebloodofthemoon_

“What are you doing?” Ragnar sounded enraged. His hand left Athelstan’s wrists.

“Sending him to sleep. I will not hurt him.”

“You will kill him!” Ragnar rose on his knees and Athelstan was born to the dirt floor by Floki’s weight.

Floki grabbed the back of his head, pressing tight. “I will not. Hold him, Ragnar. It will make it easier for him.”

Athelstan’s arms, weak from strain but finally free, came up to strike uselessly at Floki. Ragnar forced them above his head. Their eyes met and held as his body struggled for breath.

“Go to sleep, Athelstan,” Floki whispered.

Ragnar’s face was the last thing he saw before the shadows drifted into his vision, like clouds across the moon.

 

*****

 

“Well, now.” Floki sat up, lifting his hand from Athelstan’s face. “First you travel to a land that doesn’t exist, rise from the dead to become the earl, and then you gather to yourself a seer. Will you be thatching the roof with Freyr’s sword next?”

Ragnar did not answer outside of a quiet snarl. His fingers took longer to release than they should have. Beneath them were bruises. Athelstan lay quiet now, the rise and fall of his chest his only movement. His face was painted in soot, starting with a point in the center of this forehead, spread out around both eyes, splaying out into his hairline. In the fire light it shimmered, from sweat and tears, and looked all too much like the feathers of a raven.

“You will bring him to me at the prescribed time.”

Slowly, Ragnar turned his head. The Seer still stood behind him, the rest of the hall empty. Benches were overturned, mugs of spilled mead lay abandoned. There were no shapes beyond the door, no sounds from outside. He rose, fighting his pains to stand tall before the blind man. “I will bring him when it pleases me,” he spat.

His contentiousness went unnoticed.

“I will, yes, Seer,” Floki answered, appearing on his knees beside Ragnar and blocking the blow meant for his face. He held up a finger, a signal to wait as the Seer made his careful way towards the door.

Ragnar’s teeth ground together but he held his tongue until the man melted into the night. “You make easy promises with my possessions!”

Floki stood, face close and eyes wide. “You think to keep him? He is but one of many now. The earl’s slaves are yours. He is an outlander and follower of a strange god. Even now they call him your ‘mare’ and speak rough of his duties. When he begins to spout the fates of these people who you are to lead, and their slander worsens, what will you do? You cannot kill and banish them all…you would have no settlement left to lead.”

”I care little for what they call him. They owe their loyalty to me and if they value my protection, they will not speak so,” Ragnar argued. He shoved the man, forcing him to retreat a step.

“You are like a child, hiding from his angry tutor,” Floki taunted, laughing at him. “You can stop them thinking? Stop them fearing? Coveting?”

“What would they have to fear? He is mine. He will do what I command. Let them think what they like, so long as none goes against me and mine.”

“You still have much to learn of ruling men. In him, you will have a voice to the gods. You could court their favor, discover the fates of friend and enemy alike before their time. Men will fear that power. They will envy it as much as they envy you.” Floki’s grin was malevolent. “When they fear, they lash out. When they desire,” his eyes slid to Athelstan’s still form, “they take. He’s a slave, Ragnar. The things they could do to him…”

Ragnar frowned, fierce and menacing. “They would not dare.”

Laughing again, Floki moved to the hearth. His feet seemed almost to dance, so lively was his step. “You think not? The wolf must always fight for his place. Lose but one battle and you will lead no more. Where will Lagertha and your cubs be then, hmm? And all for the virtue of a thrall.”

“Cease your prattle and help me get him to bed,” Ragnar snapped, unwilling to hear more.

“You need my prattle, oh mighty earl. Better a friend’s bite than an enemy’s caress,” Floki said, scooping a fistful of ashes from the edge of the fire.

“Speak while we move him. I’ll not leave him here through the night.”

Floki shrugged and stood, rubbing his hands together. “Late council is no better than rain after the harvest. Best you listen now and make your decision.”

Frustrated, Ragnar righted a bench and sat, elbows on his knees. His eyes were narrow, suspicious, as Floki moved towards him, still chafing ash into his hands. “Say your peace, then.”

“The voices could stay within. They would torment him unto madness. Would you kill him then?” There was no answer. “He will not do it himself, you know. His god does not allow it. Pity will demand you cleave his head from his body. Can you find it in your great heart to do this?”

“No!” Ragnar sat up straight as Floki stepped close to him.

“No? You would not release him, even if it meant his spirit would be trapped?” Floki’s gaze was penetrating, glowing with a fire from within.

“He belongs to me. I will decide when I will give him to Odin,” Ragnar snapped.

Nodding, lips pursed in thought, Floki raised one hand and traced it across his brow. “You speak as if you hold his threads. That your choice comes before the gods. Is he so necessary that you would flaunt their will? One slave among many, and he _argr?”_

Ragnar did not answer the insult, just let the man paint him. Fingers rested below his cheekbones and drew down, then covered his chin.

“Your possession of him and your desire for him have not yet tangled, have they?” When Ragnar grabbed his wrists and tried to push him away, Floki sat himself down. His weight was slight, yet enough to jar Ragnar’s wound and force the man into still silence. “Answer, for this could mean his reason.”

Still holding his wrists, Ragnar first shook him, then answered through clenched teeth, “No. I have not had him. None have.”

“That is good!” Floki rose. “Then this should be easy. Take him before the end of nine days. Take him often, fill his mind with your thoughts, his lungs with your breath. Make his body your thrall and he will follow you through the madness.”

Ragnar stared, as if offended.

“You already hold his heart. Make him utterly yours before the ninth day, else he goes to madness or Helheim,” Floki squatted in the middle of the hall, hands limp between his feet on the dirt. “This is your _only_ choice.”

 

*****

 

Surely, he was in Hell.

There were no voices now, but the very air around him was clamor. The noise beat at Athelstan from all sides. It could have been the rushing of water, or wind through spring leaves, he didn’t know. It might have been the roar of a fire, for he burned.

It did not ease the pain.

He longed for armor. For a cloak. A blanket. Anything to wrap around him and block the heat. It singed his skin and burned the ashes away, leaving him raw and bloody and still it scorched him. He felt his blood boiling within and cried, wishing he could pull in a breath to beg for it to cease.

Then the voices returned, as strident and piercing as before.

_Seekthefirechildwillyoulisten_

He screamed.

“Athelstan!”

Ears and head ringing, he opened his eyes. “Ragnar,” he whispered, his thanks in his voice.

The man hovered over him, hand raised as if to strike. Athelstan licked his lips and tasted blood.

Ragnar slipped the hand beneath Athelstan’s head and lifted. “Drink.”

The cup was small but its contents were foul. Athelstan tried to turn away and Ragnar pressed, steering cup and lips to meet. When he tried to push Ragnar away, he found he could not lift his hands. The vile potion entered his mouth and he sputtered. He had the urge to spit or vomit.

“Make sure he gets it all.” Floki appeared, upside down and above him. The man looked trapped between ecstasy and terror, eyes huge and strangely glowing. “Wipe it from his face and rub it into his gums.”

Athelstan pulled, wanting to lower his arms. This only chafed his wrists, which were bound by coarse hemp and leashed to a bolt in the wall next to where Floki sat. He lay flat on his back on the floor, a cushion of blankets and furs comforting against his bare skin. The fingers that entered his mouth to push and prod were tainted by the potion and he fought to expel them, eventually biting down on them.

Ragnar hissed and withdrew, sitting back on his heels. The corner of his lips curled up and he looked pleased. He was perched above Athelstan’s hips, wearing only his woolen leggings. The fabric chafed Athelstan’s thighs when he lurched up, his stomach heaving. Ragnar forced him back down with a hand on his chest. “Keep it down or we feed you another.”

“Mead will help,” Floki said, and put another cup to his lips.

He drank it down, all of it, and still the foulness coated his teeth. “What…what is happening?”

Floki offered another cup. When it too was empty, he brushed Athelstan’s hair form his forehead with a smile. “It’s good that you are strong.”

“I don’t…understand. Ragnar.” He looked to his master. “Why do you do this?”

“If he can think to ask his endless questions, he should do well,” Floki said, a note of pride in his voice.

Ragnar genuinely smiled, his eyes locked with Athelstan’s. “His fires lie deep, Floki, but those often burn the hottest and the longest.”

Floki laughed, a high pitched cackle that made Athelstan cringe. “Indeed they must, to find himself here.”

“Why…where are my…” Athelstan struggled to speak, finding it difficult to finish his thoughts. Ragnar’s hand was a heavy weight on his chest, the fingers digging in a little to silence him. “Why am I bound?”

“The paths to the Other Realms are open to you now. Your master will be teaching you to find your way home,” Floki told him, rising quickly and gracefully to his feet. “We would not want you lost.”

“And must I be…unclothed…” Athelstan shifted his legs, “I don’t understand!”

“No more talk. Get out, Floki,” Ragnar ordered.

Floki folded his arms over his chest and…pouted. “I was hoping to watch.”

There was no humor in the quiet reply. “Out. Now.”

With that same sharp laugh, Floki fled. There was the sound of a heavy door closing a moment later.

“Ragnar, please,” Athelstan begged. A fine tremble had set in his limbs and he could hear it as he spoke. “Tell me what is happening to me. Please.”

He gasped, for Ragnar leaned forward and propped his weight on his elbow. The hand pinning him to the floor slid down to his hip to stroke the tight skin over the bone. “I’m sorry.”

“I would forgive, if you…” Ragnar’s lips brushed his cheek. Then his jaw. His neck. Not truly kissing, merely breathing upon his sweat damp skin. “Ragnar?”

“I wanted you to come to me.” The whisper was in his ear now. “You would have. I know this. Now, this is the only aid I have to offer you.”

Ragnar drew away a little to look down into Athelstan’s eyes. The shadows were pulsing, drawing closer and all Athelstan could see was his eyes, nose, and mouth. There was a snarl on Ragnar's lips, a feral gleam in those bright eyes, and Athelstan knew. “You are the wolf,” he whispered. The tremor in his voice more pronounced as his fear grew, sending everything into darkness. Everything, save Ragnar's face. “You are the wolf.”

 

***** 

 

Ragnar paid no heed to this. He took Athelstan’s mouth, searching every tender spot, every crevice. He tasted henbane and the foul mushrooms that made the _vinlauss._  From Athelstan’s mouth it was sweet as Bragi’s apples. Athelstan did not resist, did not turn his head or bite his tongue, and the exploration was pure joy. Ragnar moaned, coming to rest more fully atop the trembling form beneath him. He rocked his hips, pressing his cock against Athelstan’s iron-tense thigh.

It was then that Athelstan struggled. He shook his head to end the kiss, arched his back off of the floor and kicked with his unfettered feet. “No! No! No!” he cried, trying to throw himself over, to dislodge the weight pinning him down. “Ragnar please! Not like this! Please!”

Ragnar was not unseated. He waited for Athelstan to exhaust his strength and quiet, watching his face all the while. The frantic movements slowed more quickly than he expected and, when he met Athelstan’s imploring gaze, he knew why. The _vinlauss_ weakened him and left his spirit loosely bound, ready to walk what path he be led to. It would also leave his body unguarded, replacing vitality with languor, discipline with yearning.

Athelstan’s eyes were black like a cat’s, their dark center spread to blot out the blue. His breath came fast and shallow. When he spoke again, it was soft as Spring. “Don’t. Ragnar.”

One hand travelled up, slow over soft skin and ribs, to rest over Athelstan’s heart. It raced beneath his palm and he let his callouses rasp across the puckering nipple there. He watched Athelstan blink, heard him hitch a breath, and bent to kiss him again. This time he was gentle, teasing open his mouth, twining their tongues together. “Yield, Athelstan,” he said against trembling lips. “Submit and you will know as much joy as I can give you.”

Turning his head, hiding his face in his arm, Athelstan wept. Ragnar traced length of throat with his tongue, teeth barely grazing as he tasted the soft, white flesh.

“You will devour me,” Athelstan said, broken.

Ragnar laughed and bit, just hard enough to sting. “I will. Wholly.”

“Oh, God…please….I can’t…”

“I will help you,” Ragnar insisted, hand moving over ribs, stomach, and soft sparse hair, to rest in a loose hold over Athelstan’s cock. “I will guide you.”

Athelstan inhaled deeply and stifled a sob, his eyes shut tight.

“It will stop the burning, Athelstan.”

The sob broke free and tears ran freely to catch in his hair. He nodded into his arm.

“Look at me.” Ragnar reared back, poised on his elbow and knees. “Say it.”

Athelstan turned his head, just enough to see and speak, unhindered. He stared up at Ragnar in desperate misery. “I submit to you, Ragnar Lothbrok.”

Ragnar grinned, wild and hungry, and his mouth sought to clean the tears away even as they fell. He tightened his hold on Athelstan’s cock, pressed it against the wool that covered his own. Athelstan gasped and jerked beneath him, allowing entry when Ragnar crushed their mouths together. His fingers squeezed and stroked Athelstan to hardness. He took a fistful of loose curls, breathing in the other’s moans while he worked the flesh in his grasp. When Athelstan began to thrust into his palm, he left off the ready lips and bent to bite and suck at the man’s neck. He ignored all cries of pain, focused on keeping Athelstan’s cock stiff and leaking as he marked and sullied the moon-pale skin.

The pitch and frequency of Athelstan’s cries increased and Ragnar knew it was time. Before the other could come to completion, though, he let go and pushed up, sitting back on his heels. Athelstan’s hips continued thrusting as he wailed, pulling desperately at the ropes binding his wrists. Ragnar put both hands on him, without touching that proud and jutting hardness, and forced his hips back to the floor.

And began again.

When he stopped this time, Athelstan screamed.

His own flesh now hot and aching, Ragnar did not smile at the sound. He loosened the string gathering the tops of his leggings and allowed them to fall to his thighs. While Athelstan writhed and wept, he stroked his own cock and grew drunk on the beauty of the other’s suffering. And, though it was good, this power he held and the one he flourished it on, it was not enough. Without speaking he stood, removed his trousers and kicked Athelstan’s legs apart.

Startled, Athelstan’s eyes flew open. He saw Ragnar standing over him and could not draw his eyes away from the stiff and ready thing Ragnar held in his hand. He gulped in air, whimpered, and hid his face once again.

Ragnar knelt between his knees, gathered his legs in is arms and yanked. The motion pulled Athelstan down, straining his arms so tight that there was no place left to bury his head. Athelstan’s frightened squeak was cut off when Ragnar pushed his knees up and apart, exposing him fully. Ragnar tilted his head as he considered the pink crevice and its shadowed promise. There was only the barest bit of hair to complicate the view, proclaiming youth and innocence, promising bliss.

 

*****

 

Athelstan groaned at the stretch of his legs as they were pushed farther and wider apart than he’d believed possible. His weight was taken by Ragnar’s thighs, saving his back from bearing the brunt of it. When his knees were released he made to lower them, but Ragnar slapped the tender inside of one leg, ruthlessly pinched the other, and ordered them kept high. He waited until Athelstan had ridden out the pain and raised his eyes to take one thumb into his mouth, smiling around it as he licked the tip.

Breathless, Athelstan watched the hand lower. He felt the tip circle and press his… _his hole_ …and his body was lit with fire once again. This one raged within, though, and even as it pained him, this promised the means to its dousing. The drag of skin there, hardened with work and gentle despite its strength, soothed him. It was good, if not as good as Ragnar’s hand on him, elsewhere.

When it breeched him, he gasped. Still, there was nothing but slow, steady pleasure and he closed his eyes. Better to focus on this, not to think, not to dwell on how long this fire would be left unfettered. His body loosened even as it continued to shake, and he released the air he held, slowly. He heard Ragnar murmur something, a warm, approving sound that sunk into his soul. On his next breath, Ragnar’s thumb slipped out and he was shocked at the loss he felt. The shock was greater when it returned, along with its brother.

The two of them stretched him, prodded at places inside that seemed like they ought to hurt. He bit his lip, wishing he could stopper the sounds he heard himself making. Ragnar blessed him with his approval again and withdrew, replacing them with long, nimble fingers. He groaned as they slipped farther up, moving in slow circles until they were drawn over something hard inside him. The jolt was like lightning. He grunted, his hips tilting up of their own accord. When he opened his eyes, he saw the drops of liquid on his stomach, the head of his cock where they were forming, and Ragnar’s hand save three fingers, pressed to the knuckles against the curve of his bottom.

Ragnar was grinning, watching Athelstan’s body as it responded. He did it again and again, bringing Athelstan to a frenzy of pleading and grinding before easing. Athelstan could feel his hair clinging damp to his face, feel where the sweat had run down his arms, his chest, and still Ragnar toyed with him. At the height of such fever he heard his own voice say the words. “Ragnar, I beg…I want…”

“What do you want?” Ragnar demanded, breathing labored and voice stern, and crooked his fingers to dig.

“I want…I can't…”

Ragnar jabbed again, brutal and unerring.

The words were there, he knew them, but he could not say them. "Please!"

The fingers circled, drove harder. "Tell me, Athelstan."

“F-fuh…fuck me!” 

Shock and dismay was swallowed by Ragnar's swiftness in action. The hand withdrew and his knees were pushed higher. Ragnar leaned over his body and thrust his cock inside.

All the air left him. Ragnar’s weight held him immobile and the pressure in his gut was so foreign and frightening he thought he might faint. His eyes focused on Ragnar’s face, on the snarl curling his lips, the animal hunger in his eyes. Athelstan’s cries choked him. They stayed trapped all in his chest until he felt he would burst. Ragnar drew slowly out to thrust back in, and Athelstan tossed his head. His back arched off of the furs and he whined, high and pained, humiliatingly like a she-wolf beneath her beast.

“You may scream, priest,” Ragnar growled, hand going to the back of Athelstan’s head. He yanked his hair, lifted until Athelstan thought his shoulders would separate, and put their mouths together as he reared back for another thrust.

Athelstan did scream, and Ragnar smiled against his cheek as he fucked.

Through the grunts, from both of them, Athelstan heard the slap of flesh. Beneath that, he heard the wet sound of their joining. And, despite those sounds, joined by the throb of his blood in his ears. Athelstan heard Ragnar whispering.

“So precious,” he spoke against Athelstan’s cheek. “Pure and sweet like summer honey. I am blessed. Blessed with the gift of you.”

With those words he felt the tide turn from hurt to ecstasy. Ragnar’s cock stroked the seat of his pleasure and he groaned. He heard and felt Ragnar’s response, a rumbling under the ribs where his thighs were pressed. Bold now, lost in exquisite torment, he sought Ragnar’s lips. Kissed with fervor and sucked on the tongue that speared into his mouth. He was swept up in Ragnar’s power, his strength and passion, and felt the current pull him under.

Ragnar wrapped fingers around his cock, pulled and squeezed until he was screaming again, but this time with release. His body seized into an arc, tightening like a bow string before falling limp and nearly insensible. He kept his eyes open, just enough, to watch Ragnar as he plowed harder and faster, and, finally, felt hot seed discharged deep in his bowels. He was thrust into twice more as Ragnar choked and groaned, his face drawn and twisted yet breathtaking in its beauty.

Athelstan sent his thanks to Freyr and dropped into darkness.

He woke, how much later he did not know. Shifted a bit to ease the discomfort in his back and gasped. Aches from all points of his body voiced their displeasure; his head, shoulders and neck, his legs and inbetween. Even his hands hurt.. The sound roused movement behind him and he was wrapped up in warmth. 

"Easy, easy," Ragnar mumbled in his ear. "You're all right. Go back to sleep."

One hand closed on his wrist, stinging the abraded flesh there. But the ropes were gone, the voices silent, and the fire merely glowing coals. So he closed his eyes, and went back to sleep in Ragnar's embrace. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here comes the mysticism. And a god.
> 
> There's sex and angst, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not ashamed to say that my story is taking on strong mythological/fantasy themes.

Ragnar came awake to a toe in his shoulder.

“It is almost dawn.” Floki was looking down at him with a knowing grin on his face.

“I will come out in a bit. Leave us.”

Floki made a face, one that showed his thoughts.

“You said to take him often,” Ragnar said, stretching.

“Indeed, I did. Well then, breakfast will be waiting. My lord.” Floki bowed and left, still mocking.

When the door closed, Ragnar turned to look at Athelstan. Awake, he was a man, if barely. In sleep, he was a child, his mouth soft and pink, cheek pressed into the fur. Ragnar trailed fingers down the exposed slope of his back. It startled a shiver out of him, caused him to restlessly turn away. Ragnar took the opportunity to fit his body against the other, wrap him with one arm and tuck his knees beneath Athelstan’s thighs. He ignored the urgent stiffness in his prick and nuzzled at the untidy nest of black curls.

He felt Athelstan start, kept his hold sure but not pressing. “Shhh, you’re all right. It is morning, and I must go. You should sleep more, while you can.”

“I…” Athelstan started to speak but he shuddered once and was silent.

“Go on, I know you have many questions,” Ragnar said, nosing behind the man’s ear.

The silence was heavy, thick with accusation and fear and regret. Another quake ran through Athelstan’s body and he whispered, “ _Why?_ ”

Ragnar moved, pulling the other onto his back with his head on Ragnar’s arm. He brushed the hair out of Athelstan’s face, keeping his touch light. “When you screamed, I thought you drunk and taken by the smoke. I meant to haul you over my shoulder and put you to bed. It was only when you began the chanting that I knew something was wrong. Your words made no sense, at first, but once they began repeating, it was plain to see.”

“What words?” Athelstan asked, brows drawn together.

“You don’t remember?” The other shook his head. “What _do_ you remember?”

Gulping, Athelstan began. “I remember burning, thinking that perhaps I had strayed too close to the fire and would die wrapped in flames. Then I heard people screaming and I was sorry. I thought I had set the hall on fire and had killed everyone else, too. Then I couldn’t breathe, and I saw your eyes…” There was a sharp intake of breath. “And then I was bound, naked…and you were s-sitting on me…”

“The drink we gave you, do you remember that?” Ragnar asked.

Athelstan shook his head. “Is that why my mouth tastes like Gyda’s pudding?”

Gyda had wanted to learn to bake. She’d chosen the wrong berries. Ragnar chuckled and bent to kiss him, let his tongue travel teeth and gums and tease at the other. “It’s not _that_ bad.”

Athelstan had gone very still at the touch of Ragnar’s lips. “Ragnar, please,” he whispered.

He didn’t pull away, for to withdraw now would make it harder to return. He kissed Athelstan again, mostly chaste, a sharing of air, then spoke. “The voices were not people. They were _Norns_ , the ones who weave our fates. You have been called, Athelstan, to be The Voice of The Gods. We will not know why until you go to the Seer, nine days hence. He will intervene until then, ask what must be done.”

“But…I am a child of God, given unto him for his purpose only,” Athelstan protested.

“And yet, you were called,” Ragnar challenged, plainly. He cupped Athelstan’s chin, keeping him staring forward when he would have looked away. “Your spirit is already attuned to listening, to keeping lessons and missives clear and ready for recollection. Is it not so surprising that what one god would want, another would desire?”

Athelstan blinked away tears. “And the rope? What…came after? What was that?”

Ragnar pressed his forehead to Athelstan’s cheek. “These nine days will test you. You could be lost, wandering on the edges of the Realms forever. You could die, for the burning will squander your body’s strength and leave you weak as a new lamb. Your spirit will need tethering to this realm else it will separate from your will.” He raised his head and looked into Athelstan’s eyes, so close their noses were touching. “I will not let that happen, Athelstan. I will do what I must to keep you with me.”

“And that means…”

“It means I will do what I must, and you have no choice.” Ragnar’s words set Athelstan to weeping. He kissed the tears away. “If you would but trust me, know that I do this because I would not lose you and let me help you, what follows will be easier.”

“I trust you, Ragnar. I always have, even in your anger you have never…hurt me, a-purpose,” Athelstan answered, tearfully. “Until last night.”

“I would not have done it so, had I a choice. There will be pain, know this now, but I will give you such pleasure as to blot out the memory of it,” Ragnar promised, his lips moving to caress the black and purple bruise on Athelstan’s neck. “Please trust me, Athelstan. Yield to me in all I demand so that I can save you.”

Still Athelstan wept.

“Athelstan, you must swear it,” Ragnar said, looking into his face again. He tightened his grip on the other’s face, fingers digging just enough to hurt. “Now, while you understand, swear this to me.”

With trembling lips and shaking limbs, Athelstan swore. “I will yield to you, Ragnar. In all things.”

 

*****

 

“Come now, priest. You must eat.”

“No,” Athelstan whispered, curled towards the wall. His hands were over his ears and his eyes were shut tight. His plight had been explained. The parameters of his existence were restricted to an empty hut behind the hall. It was half-hidden in the trees. None would trouble them here. Ragnar had said he was to forego clothing, saying they would only hinder their course. He was finally a captive, in the truest sense.

“I will tell you a story.”

“I want no more stories. Please, go away.”

He heard Floki’s frustrated sigh, but didn’t care. If he had to remain in this dismal hut, alone and naked, for the next nine days, he would no longer play at being pleasant.

When Floki leaned over him, he stiffened. The man’s lips moved over his fingers. “If you do not sit up and eat your food, I will fetch Haraldson’s whip and teach you The Lesson of the Unruly Slave.”

The threat sent a tendril of ice down his spine that cut through the now constant burning. He was already hurt, already sick with fever. It pained him to sit. What more was a whipping?

“And I will tell Ragnar.”

Athelstan pushed the man’s face away and rolled over. He pulled himself up to sit, pressed his back against the wall and drew his knees to his chest. He hissed as his bottom dragged across the fur.

Floki tutted. “It can’t be that bad. Ragnar checked you, he said you didn’t even bleed.”

Face afire, Athelstan said nothing. Ragnar had… _looked_? Had pried him open while he slept? He stared at the blanket in his hands, where they were tucked beneath his chin.

“I helped him remove your clothes last night. You need not hide yourself.”

At this, Athelstan began to cry. How to explain? How could he make plain his disgrace? Floki always mocked, always had his say, and Athelstan did not want his bruises counted nor his torments listed. “I want to go home,” he whispered, miserably.

There was a gentle touch to his chin. He raised only his eyes, still clutching the blanket close.

“You will feel better when you have eaten. The fever leaves you weak and unable to fight the madness,” Floki said, more softly. The scornful tone was gone.

Reluctantly, he allowed his legs to straighten under the press of Floki’s hands. He relented control of his blanket, too, and the other fussed with it, tucking it around him so that it covered from chest to toes. Then Floki placed a bowl in his lap.

“It is good hearty broth. The bread is in small pieces and has been soaking to soften.” Floki touched his face again, this time along his jaw. “Your mouth is likely very sore. We had to strike you many times.”

Athelstan gave him grudging thanks and took up the bowl. His ignored the man’s grin as he sipped, still wishing he were alone. The cuts in his lips burned but the soup _was_ good. Half of it was gone before he timidly asked, “May I have something to drink?”

Silent now, Floki handed him a flagon of ale. Athelstan refused to meet his gaze. He felt it on him throughout the rest of his meal. As he finished, he set the plate and cup aside, still not looking up from his lap.

“There is no shame in this, Athelstan.”

It was said mildly, without scorn or judgment, and Athelstan’s eyes flicked up, momentarily.

Floki had an odd look, something that made him look older and younger at the same time. It was unsettling.

“You are angry, as is your right. You thought your body was your last and only gift to give. You hoarded it as if it were treasure. Surely you know by now that keeping it hidden only made him want it more.”

“I did no such thing!” Athelstan snapped. “I covered my body in modesty, did not flaunt it because I saw no reason to. The sins of vanity and lust are written upon the naked flesh.”

“And what of envy, hmm?” Floki had smiled when Athelstan had spoken in temper. Now he laughed. “What you hide breeds curiosity. What they see breeds desire. They wonder. They crave. In their heads they think ‘what can he be protecting?’ What _do_ you protect? Do _you_ know?”

Athelstan’s despair was plain on his face “My purity. “

Floki made a face.

“It was mine to give! It was all I had left!”

“You are a slave, child. Everything you are, body, mind, and spirit, belongs to Ragnar.” Floki still had that ageless quality to him, but now he seemed sympathetic. “Your master protected your purity from others who would take it and it nearly cost him his life. Do you not think you owed him this?”

Head and heart hurting as much as his body, Athelstan closed his eyes and gathered his knees close again. “I’m tired.”

“Then rest, and I will see you midday.” Floki took the cup and plate away. Before the door opened, Athelstan had again stretched out on his pallet. There was a soft “Blessings” and then he was alone.

 

 *****

 

“Your mind is not here.”

Ragnar lifted his eyes from his knees. He turned to face his wife, who leaned over the arm of her chair.

“No. I’m sorry,” he said, with a sigh.

“You cannot let the matter distract you, Ragnar. You have much work to do.”

“I know, I know.” He sat back and ran a hand over his face. He gave Lagertha a small, hopeful smile. “Help me?”

She huffed out a laugh and smacked his thigh. “If I do, you will likely have as many bruises as your priest.”

_His priest._

“It will be worth it. He will be powerful, Lagertha.”

She cast him a baleful eye. “He had better be, for all it will cost him.”

“I’ll take care of him. He’ll not be lost.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t doubt you will save him from losing his mind, Ragnar. I worry that you’ll take his spirit, with what you have planned. He will not be the voice of the gods if you break him. He’ll only be your play toy.”

Just the words conjured his imaginings, the visions that would not leave him.

Athelstan biting his lip as his cock was tugged. Hips thrusting into empty air as he cried out. The wanton groans and hungry kisses that had, with patience, been Ragnar’s reward.

It was true the dreams had always been there, in the recesses of this thoughts. Now, after the taking, those things that had been below the surface were floating at the top. Boiling up like the choicest of meats in a stew. Ready to be plucked and savored.

And he was so hungry.

The next petitioner stepped forward and Ragnar fought the gnawing in his loins to take heed. This part was important, hearing the requests denied by Haraldson and re-evaluating necessities based on Ragnar’s less insulated code. These things needed doing if he were to be a successful ruler.

He bit his lip hard and looked for a moment at the slant of sunlight on the floor. It would be midday soon.

He could eat then. 

 

Ragnar stopped Floki on the path. “I will take that.”

“Have you eaten yet?” Floki asked, ignoring the dangerous sneer on his lips.

“I will. Take. That.”

The man relinquished the bowl and flagon with a shrug and walked off, speaking softly to himself. Or the trees. Or the birds. Ragnar didn’t know.

As he approached the hut, heard the chanting and groaning beyond the door, he didn’t care.

Athelstan wept, shuddered, and knew nothing of his arrival.

_“Fear is death and death is certain. Fear is certain. The wolf fears.”_

After setting the food and drink by the door, Ragnar knelt beside the disordered pallet. Athelstan had tossed and shifted so that he was uncovered, all but one fur shoved away to form a useless barricade around him. His eyes were open and unblinking. They saw not Ragnar but through him, focused on something other. Worlds awesome and frightening, wide lands in which he had no guide.

Ragnar bent to bring him back.

_“The wolf fears. He seeks to hold the moon. His teeth seek to tear.”_

“A warning too late,” he whispered, and stopped the flow of words with his mouth.

Athelstan fought. The surprise of a fist to his jaw sent Ragnar falling back to catch himself on one elbow.

_“Seeks to feed…seeks to feed…seeks to take the moon.”_

Ragnar grabbed the man’s wrists and hauled him to the wall. He slammed Athelstan’s head against it, pinning him by his arms against the rough wood. Holding by Athelstan’s hair, Ragnar dropped onto his kicking legs.

“I will take the moon,” he growled, staring into those wide, vacant eyes. “You may use him, but he will remain _mine_.”

Straining, pushing and punching, the voice that was still Athelstan’s intoned without stammer, “ _You fight for him. Tell us why.”_

“I will not tell you,” Ragnar answered, yanking the hair in his hand until the other’s neck was bared. “You would not listen.”

He put his teeth against Athelstan’s throat, dragging them, letting his tongue taste the sweat. Then he bit as hard as he could until he heard the scream.

“Stop! Stop!”

He licked the marks, traced them and was grateful he found no blood.

“Please, please stop. Make it stop.”

He opened his hand and Athelstan’s head dropped to his shoulder. “Ragnar. Make it stop.”

“I will,” Ragnar promised and took his lips.

Ragnar’s presence was needed to continue the petitions and time was short. He moved Athelstan again, setting the man on his knees with face pressed into the pile of fur and wool. He entered swiftly and rode with urgency, one hand stroking Athelstan’s cock and the other holding firm to a shoulder. Athelstan’s cries were like music, falling in time to the rhythm of Ragnar’s thrusts.

Ragnar felt him fighting the pleasure, could feel the tightening around him and the thickening against his palm. Still, release did not come and Ragnar knew why. He pulled as hard as he could on Athelstan’s cock. It would have pained any man.

“Let go, Athelstan. I have you.”

Athelstan grunted, whimpered, and grunted again, as Ragnar snapped his hips. “No, no…”

“You swore to me,” Ragnar told him on a vicious thrust. He made his voice hard. Angry. “You swore to me and you will do as _I command.”_

“Yes,” the other gasped. “Yesyesyesyes….”

Athelstan went silent though his mouth was wide with a scream. His fingers closed on Ragnar’s wrist where it held his shoulder and left furrows with their nails. A shout was forced from Ragnar by the clench of muscle on his cock and he, too, froze. The peak was powerful, the release a mercy.

They collapsed as one. Ragnar did not release the other until his trembling and weeping had eased. He held Athelstan longer still, kissing and stroking, soothing until he could look into Athelstan’s eyes and see the man’s spirit had returned. “There you are,” Ragnar whispered, giving him a smile.

Athelstan blinked and sighed. “This….this will kill me.”

“No.” Ragnar held his face and stroked his cheek. “No. You are strong.”

“And if I’m not?”

Ragnar smiled, broad and full of fire. “Then I will fight for you.”

  

As Ragnar sat for the afternoon session, his fingers played with the scratches on his wrist. And he smiled.

 

*****

 

Athelstan wished for a bowl of water and a cloth. His body felt sticky, his face gritty. When he rubbed his fingers over his eyes and they came away black with soot, he wondered when he had found the fire with his face.

It certainly felt as if he’d struck the bricks. His jaw, cheek, and mouth were all tender. Floki had said they’d had to strike him, but he could not put to rights that knowledge. He’d have been hit hard, enough to knock him senseless, to feel such bruises. Yet he did not recall such mistreatment.

Except…he remembered tasting blood once. Ragnar had stood over him with his hand raised and Athelstan had thought that the strike was pending, but now…the strike came while he was, what? Dreaming?

_I have heard voices_ , Athelstan thought. _I felt burning and yet I am whole. What does this mean?_

They had struck him. Ragnar bit him. Each time the pain pulled him from a place of obliviousness. They hurt him to bring him back. If he knew where he went, perhaps they would not need to hurt him anymore.

Staring at the thatch above him, Athelstan forced a memory. He closed his eyes and thought of flames and chains. Darkness and pain. He remembered words, bits of phrases, nothing whole or clear enough to understand. Still he dwelled upon them, deeply considering every piece of this puzzle. His thoughts were consumed by what he had heard and so he did not feel his flesh prickle.

Instead, he heard a multitude of voices that washed all other sensation away.

**You heard us, follower of a dead god.**

The sound in his head was clashing, metal upon metal. He groaned from the pain of it, but he answered.

“He is not dead. He is risen.”

**Teach us.**

“What would you have me teach you?”

**Teach us. Risen.**

“He died, was born again and risen unto Heaven. He sits beside God the Father, and sends his Holy Spirit to show the way.”

**He is three.**

“He is the Holy Trinity.”

**You worship three gods. We are three, and we are more than three.**

The pain in his head increased as the voices rose. “Stop. You must stop. I can’t…”

**We are more than three. We are holy thrice told. We are more than holy.**

“Stop! Oh, God, please!” He clutched at his hair, his face, scratching.

**We are more. You will give us more.**

He was screaming. They would surely kill him.

“Odin! Odin!”

Athelstan was abruptly back in the hut. His vision was blurred, but he could see Floki above him. The man was breathing heavy, rubbing his frizzy hair as hard as he could and calling out to Odin. In one hand he held a leather strap, a belt. His belt.

“F-loki?”

Surprise and relief showed on Floki’s face, and his sigh was genuinely pleased. “Priest! Thank the All Father!”

Now, Athelstan felt the pain. The tops of his thighs felt cut and blisteringly hot. “Nnn-need pain to…keep me here.”

The two looked at each other. Floki nodded with a satisfied smile. “I knew you would figure it out, and much sooner than I expected. There is more to it than that, though. I will help you clean yourself and we will talk.”

“How can there…be more than that?” Athelstan asked, allowing Floki to sit him up. He looked down at his legs, bearing four strips from the belt. Blood was seeping, gathering to drip slowly down. “All is pain now.”

“Drink, priest,” Floki ordered, pressing a small cup into his hands.

Athelstan remembered the smell, but not from where. His nose wrinkled and he held it away.

“Tilt your head back, breathe in, drink, and breathe out.”

Floki’s instructions were helpful, yet the taste was still enough to threaten. He covered his mouth and shuddered as it tore its way to his stomach. He took the ale gratefully when it was offered. “That is horrid, but if you’ve poisoned me, I shan’t complain.”

The man’s laugh was bright and loud. “Ah! You’re humors have returned! This is good, Athelstan. Very good.”

Confused, but ever enthralled by Floki’s uncanny behavior, Athelstan allowed himself to be tended. As the potion took effect, he was taken outside to a fire and a cauldron full of hot water. Floki cackled at the look of alarm on his face, and held up a large cloth. “You wish to be clean, yes?”

He was washed, even his hair. His cuts were treated with oil. Floki sang songs over him that began to run together in his head. “Floki, I’m so tired.”

“Stay there,” the man told him, hands on his shoulders.

So Athelstan stayed, kneeling in the cold grass. The fire warmed his front, but his back was chilled and ached despite the numbing of the drink. His head slowly dropped to his chest, his hands fell limp to this thighs, and in his next breath he was lost in fog.

 

*****

 

Ragnar spent a few moments with his children over dinner, answering their questions. He’d found the direction of Bjorn’s comments disturbing.

“He probably hears his god telling him to kill us,” the boy had said.

Surprised, Ragnar asked, “And what if he does? Do you think he could?”

“I don’t think he’s held a sword in his life.”

“Then why does it bother you?”

Bjorn frowned into his food.

“Will he die?” Gyda asked. She was distressed, having found a friend in Athelstan, and wished only for his return to their table.

“Not if I can help it,” Ragnar told her, ducking down to look her in the eye.

She nodded but did not smile.

“He’s pretending,” Bjorn muttered, stirring the stew.

Lagertha reached out to take his shoulder. She shook him a little as she said, crossly, “A man does not scream like that to jest. That was sheer terror. He would not pretend.”

“I used to scare Gyda like that all the time,” Bjorn shot back. “It’s easy!”

“Oh, you have been in battle? Watched men face their deaths coming towards them on two legs?” Lagertha asked.

Bjorn scowled again.

Nodding, Lagertha sat back. “Grown men do not play scared.”

“He’s not a grown man. He’s weak and he does not fight.”

Ragnar put his elbows on the table. “There are more ways to fight, Bjorn, than with axe and shield. He has fought from the moment he came here; fought you, the earl, even me.” They were all looking at him now. “He fights for his god and his soul, and has never faltered. He is strong here,” Ragnar said, pointing at his chest. “And that is why I will help him.”

Bjorn looked sullen. “He wants to take you away from us.”

“And why would you think that?” Ragnar asked, growing frustrated with the boy’s spite.

“He has, hasn’t he? That’s where you will be tonight. And every night from now on,” Bjorn answered, daring his father to denounce him.

“Yes, until he goes to the Seer,” Ragnar said, deflating his anger with an icy stare.

“What will happen then?” Gyda asked. Her concern tempered Ragnar’s mood.

He took her small hand in his. “I don’t know, blossom. That’s why I have to help him.”

The moon was well up before his feet found the path again. He wondered if others felt as his son did, distrusting Athelstan so much. Loki had intimated as much as he argued the night before, but Ragnar could see no reason why such fears were present. What he knew about the man proved to Ragnar that he was loyal, fair, and intelligent. And, as Athelstan had told him often, forbidden to lie by his god.

That was good enough for Ragnar.

He felt first his stomach flop when he saw the door to the hut standing open. Then he heard the low murmur of Athelstan’s _other_ voice. It was joined by another in the next moment. Following the sound through the trees, off of the path and into the thick dark, he crept quietly to the edge of a small clearing. The fire in the center cast the scene in red-gold and shadow and the eerie intonation from Athelstan’s lips stirred unease in Ragnar’s belly.

“… _raven to moon, wolf to raven…fire reveals the way_ …”

Athelstan knelt on the forest floor with his hands limp beside his feet. He swayed, and Ragnar saw Floki scamper from a dark hollow to steady him. One hand pulled Athelstan upright, against his body. The other brushed hair off of Athelstan’s face. “You want the fire? You said the fire would destroy us all.”

“ _The fire shows the way. The wolf does not burn_.”

When Athelstan’s head dropped back to rest on Floki’s stomach, Ragnar could see his vacant stare and firelight dancing across the tears on his cheeks.

“ _The wolf comes_.”

Floki’s keen eyes lifted from Athelstan’s face and searched the woods. “Ragnar?”

Stepping into the clearing but keeping to the shadows, Ragnar said, “I don’t recall approving his use in your magic, Floki.”

“I don’t need your approval, Earl Ragnar. I am commanded by a higher power,” Floki replied, still stroking Athelstan’s face.

“I already told them I would fight for him. Did they send you to do battle with me?”

Floki laughed. “Perhaps not.  Then again,” he stopped and ran his hand down Athelstan’s chest, “perhaps.”

“Floki,” Ragnar warned, moving closer.

Grinning, the man’s fingers traced across Athelstan’s lips. They moved beneath the touch.

_“Take the moon and raven. Lost in fog and bog_.”

The words gave Floki pause. “He is lost?”

“ _The moon is lost_.”

Ragnar cursed and closed the distance between them. “You could not wait until he learns his way? What if he is already beyond our reach?” he asked, tersely. He went to his knees beside Athelstan and touched his cheek. “He’s hot, Floki!”

“Tis only the fire,” Floki dismissed, and ran his fingertips down Athelstan’s back as he squatted. “Feel, he does not burn here.”

He grabbed Ragnar’s hand and forced it to lay flat between Athelstan’s shoulders. The touch there was ice.

“You fool!” Ragnar shouted. He gathered Athelstan close to his chest. “Do you seek to kill him? The fever will lay him waste and yet you bring him into the forest to scorch and freeze? Have you lost what mind you have left?”

Floki laughed, sprung up and away. “He solved the riddle of the flesh, Ragnar. He knows what will save him.”

“Odin’s tits, man, be silent!” Ragnar held Athelstan’s head in his hand and searched empty eyes.

 

***** 

_Someone help me!_

Athelstan’s feet were sinking in freezing mud. He could feel the promise of numbness but it did not come. When he stumbled, falling forward with arms outstretched, his hands were sucked into the greedy muck.

_Someone please!_

He was going to drown in this mire. Athelstan felt his heart race and his breath quicken, and blind panic spurred him to struggle against the pull. He cried out again in desperate, fading hope.

Then there were hands upon him, freeing him from the swamp’s grip and setting him on his frozen feet. On solid ground. When the hands released him he dropped to his knees. Before were fine shoes, trimmed in gold and silver, with shimmering windings twining legs seeming tall as firs. His eyes moved up and up, over a long, soft tunic of bright green, jeweled belt and dagger, and finely carved pins holding a fur lined cloak. The face seemed a long way off.

“Thank you,” Athelstan said, softly.

The giant, for surely he was, knelt and peered down at Athelstan, curiously. “I did not hear you,” he said, voice booming.

Athelstan stared, slack-jawed, for the giant was _beautiful_. His skin was the white of the holly tree, lips red like the fruit it bore. His eyes were the dark of the forest, his brows, beard and curled hair the color of the hottest fire. The creature smiled and Athelstan wanted to weep. Instead, he lowered his head and said, “Thank you.”

“You strayed from the path, Midgardian. Only a bit farther and you would have fallen into Helheim, and even I cannot pull you from there.”

One finger, the size of Athelstan’s arm and laden with rings, clucked him under the chin. The strength of it closed his teeth on his tongue and he gasped.

That dazzling smile came again. “Awake now? You’d best be off.”

“I can’t move. I think,” Athelstan murmured, “I think my feet are frozen.”

An enormous hand landed on Athelstan’s head. He heard the words, “I will fix that” and then all was flame.

He felt in in his feet first. Bolts of lightning shot from sole to knee. He gasped at the pain and began kicking and thrashing to put out the fire. He did not cry out, could not for his mouth filled with flame as soon as he opened it. He fought with his entire might. Until his strength fled and his limbs lay weak and trembling.

“Athelstan?”

That sound promised shelter. It promised warmth that did not burn. He turned his head to seek it, yearning. Greedy.

He felt his back press into solid, smooth comfort and moaned.

“Athelstan, wake. I need you here.”

_No_ , he said silently, shaking his head. He took his ease against the sturdy support, arching into it as if it were a luxuriant couch.

There was a hum at his ear, a rumble that he responded to with an eager sigh.

“Athelstan, _Gods_ , what are you doing?”

His hands were clasped, fingers twined and long arms wrapping around his chest. A sting on his shoulder drew a hiss from him and then gentled into wet heat. “ _Ohhh_ …oh, more. Please.”

The rumble returned with another sting and he felt against his skin the words as they were spoken. “Ah, fuck, what…”

There was no more pain in his legs and so he braced them. It was not ground beneath his feet but strong muscle, bone and flesh. With them so steadied he pushed, sliding his body up and down against a bastion of flesh. “More,” he breathed, knowing and not knowing for what he asked.

He heard a hungry growl and had a fleeting thought to fear, but the sting set itself at his neck and his hips were lifted in fierce hands. They settled him and he was pierced. He cried out as pain and pleasure blurred, as inseparable now as oil from water. He let his head fall back to rest as his body moved, rising and plunging down on the rod that pierced him.

One arm rose above his head and he reached for purchase. He found it; a rope of braids brushed his fingers and he dug in, held it tight. His ear rang with a shout. He whimpered and turned his head, hearing a breathy apology and his name, over and over. His lips parted and he received the offering that passed them, tugging it greedily with his teeth. There was another shout and this time, his whole world moved.

The muscle, bone and flesh beneath his feet surged up between his knees. He let his thighs fall open and the earth rose, no longer patient. He was lifted by his hips and forced down, hard, so hard that he yelled. Not so hard that he tried to escape. Instead, he arched his back as far as he could and let the power take him and take him and take him… Take him until he was cracking. Breaking apart like ice at sun’s first spring kiss.

He opened his eyes to see the black tops of trees and a circle of stars.

 

*****

 

“What…in the name…of Yddragsil…was that?”

Ragnar was panting, sated and sweating on the forest floor. Athelstan was a heavy, pliant weight atop him, fingers still caught in Ragnar’s braids, his other limbs loose and spread around him like petals on a flower. He turned his head enough to feel Athelstan’s breath across his mouth and sucked in a deep breath.

“That was magic, my friend.”

Floki was several feet away. He was huddled down on his haunches, eyes aglow. His face wore a look of astonished pride and there was nothing of arousal or shock in his manner. He was so calm, in fact, it was unsettling.

“Don’t be a fool,” Ragnar said, and began to open his hands. They were still holding Athelstan’s hips so tightly that he felt his finger joints popping as they straightened.

“I’m not a fool. I am a disciple of Loki. Bearer of Fire. Challenger of the Aesir,” Floki whispered. There was no trace of madness or levity in his voice. “I know his touch when I see it.”

Ragnar frowned and turned his attention to Athelstan, who had opened his eyes and was staring dazedly up at the stars.

“Are you with me, priest?” he asked, letting his lips brush the shell of Athelstan’s ear.

The other’s mouth worked, moving as if in answer, but no sound came.

“Do you think you can sit?”

Athelstan moved but not to sit. His hand opened to trail down over Ragnar’s forehead, nose and eyes. It paused to brush beard and lips before lifting to hover, its paleness breaking the black sky above. “He touched me,” he said in a whisper.

Ragnar pushed up on his elbows, then braced his hands on the ground. Athelstan did not move but slid neatly into his lap. After gathering him close, holding him against the chill, Ragnar asked, “Who touched you?”

“He was a giant.” Athelstan’s voice was reverent, his eyes like a babe’s, wide and soft and amazed at the world. “He was beautiful.”

“Loki!”

This exclamation was accompanied by a giggle and the sound of shuffling.

“It was Loki. He came to you! In his true form!” Floki was besieged with glee, laughing and crying as he crawled towards them. “Oh, priest! Oh, child! Can you not see that you have been blessed?”

Ragnar took note of Athelstan’s pallor and the chill of his skin. “Let us discuss this inside. You’re freezing.”

“I can still feel his hand upon me,” Athelstan said, burying his face into Ragnar’s neck. His teeth scraped and tongue followed, causing Ragnar to hiss and tighten his arms. “I feel it stir fire in my blood. I’m _warm_ , so warm.”

Floki, his eyes manically gleaming, hooted and leapt to his feet. “Ha-ha! See now, if it does not become Ragnar Lothbrok who feels the flames!”

“The wolf does not burn,” Athelstan recited, his mouth sliding up to Ragnar’s ear.

Ragnar took a fist full of curls and pulled. He answered Loki, but his eyes never left Athelstan.  “I feel them. I’ve burned for months now, and the fire is far from doused.”

Athelstan shuddered, twisted against the hand in his hair. He licked dry lips and said, “I’m so thirsty. Is there drink?”

This spurred Ragnar into action. “Floki, find my tunic and then bring water. I’ll get him inside.”

“Get him to bed, more like,” Floki answered. He flung a bundle of cloth at Ragnar and loped off through the trees, cackling merrily.

Ragnar separated his tunic and frock, which were tangled together when he pulled them as one over his head. He took the fine frock for himself and helped Athelstan into the heavier wool. There was silence now, but it was good quiet. Restful.

As they stood, Athelstan spoke. “What did he mean when he said magic?”

“Look around you. What do you see?” Ragnar spread his arms wide and stepped back.

Athelstan looked. He turned twice in a circle, as if unbelieving of what he saw. When he faced Ragnar once more, his face was drawn, fearful. The euphoria had gone.

“Ragnar, what is this?” he asked in a trembling voice. 

Beyond them lay winter, with snow, ice, bare ash and silent oak. The clearing, though, was in full bloom. It was as if it were in celebration of Thrimilci, early in spring with summer ahead. Firelight shimmered on leaves instead of bare wood. Flowers hung heavy from green branches and soft grass rustled under their feet. Blooms shot up at the edge of the fire, yellow and purple and vibrant. Even the air was warmer, scented with fertile promise.

Ragnar smiled. He felt it, too, and was more alive now than ever he remembered. He drew close, leaned down to Athelstan’s ear, and whispered, “Magic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used my childhood memory of Loki. I had a great book about Norse mythology that had the most beautiful illustrations in it, and Loki was a huge, bearded, red-head. 
> 
> Thrimilci is May 1 and is the celebration of the start of the growing season.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn some things about Ragnar and Floki's relationship.
> 
> Athelstan deals with some of his fears and goes travelling. 
> 
> Ragnar deals with some of own and reconnects with Lagertha in a way he'd not expected.
> 
> Floki is awesome. 
> 
> I think that covers it.
> 
> Oh, there is m/f in this chapter, between husband and wife. Wife is with child, so if pregnant sex is not your thing, skip that part.

“There was a warm wind. It blew the trees and the leaves, left them green and soft as spring. It blew through me, as well, Athelstan, and renewed my strength. I feel rested as I have not felt in years.”

They were leaned against the wall of the hut. The door stood open, letting the winter moon spill light upon them. The cold was not troubling either of them. Athelstan still felt the thrum of blood warmer than his own and he, in turn, was draped over Ragnar’s lap. As he explained what had happened, Ragnar slowly stroked the inside of Athelstan’s leg. It was a soothing gesture one might use on a skittish horse, but Athelstan took no offense.

He _was_ skittish. Nervous and trembling like a new colt. Though, if he were asked, he would admit the hold of Ragnar’s arms, the cradle of his thighs, and the tickle of beard on Athelstan’s forehead as he spoke did much to steady him.

“But where did it come from?” Athelstan asked. His words were slurred, remnants of the potion or the wind or both.

He felt Ragnar’s smile against his forehead. “It came from beneath me. Beneath us. A fount of fertile summer air from the soil itself.”

Athelstan closed his eyes, pressed his face into Ragnar’s neck. “I’m damned,” he mumbled.

“What’s that?” Ragnar drew back and looked down at him.

“I am damned. I’ve been tainted…” Athelstan began to laugh. “...the Fallen One. I am unclean and a heretic.”

“Who speaks of heresy?” Floki said from the door. He filled the opening and blocked much of the light, but Athelstan could still see the dangerous look in the man’s eyes.

“I will inspirit not the use of divination, or amulets, or magic…I renounce all the deeds and words of the devil, Thor, Odin, and Tyr…Ha-ha-ha…”Athelstan’s laugh took on a shrill, manic tone.

He was shaken, and shaken harder still as he began to convulse in Ragnar’s arms.

“And you shall not fall at the feet of wooden idols, nor make sacrifices to the saints!”

“Heed me!” There was shocking cold on his face and his head felt loosed from his shoulders. 

Athelstan went quiet.

“Do you hear me?”

He tried to nod but it hurt. Speaking was not better. “Yes.”

Ragnar’s hands tenderly wiped the water from his face, then offered him a cup. “Drink.”

When Athelstan had drained that one, he was given another.

“You are not unclean, or damned, or whatever other idiocy has been fed you,” Floki told him. He was angry and seemed larger in his fury. The sneer on his mouth flavored his words with loathing. “The fools treat the gift of Sight as a curse and seek to blot it out. They will find it more costly than they could imagine.”

“Insanity is its own cost, is it not?” Athelstan asked, feebly laughing. “Is it any wonder why they would wish it gone?”

Floki’s face softened. “So young, in spirit if not in flesh. Do you believe that your God would hesitate to use you if he had wisdom to impart? A message to deliver?” Athelstan shook his head. “No, and why should he, being a god? Ours are the same, save that our paths are many. The madness is the time allotted to learn your way to and from their lands.”

“Why so little time? Why all at once? Is there no slowing it?”

“Always the nine days. Always the end of the ninth on the full moon,” Ragnar said.

Floki nodded to confirm this. He laid his fingers alongside the throbbing in Athelstan’s face. “This is what your master is doing, child. He seeks to give you a tether with which to keep hold of your spirit. It is not heresy in any temple, to want to keep what you treasure close to you.”

Athelstan closed his eyes.

“You must ride this storm, Athelstan, and trust your master, should you want to see this world again,” the man finished.

“How do you know this?”

Athelstan’s question invoked a quietness in Floki that he’d never witnessed. Where he had seen madness in the other’s eyes, now he saw strange and startling wisdom. Floki smiled and said, “It is often seen as the same, you know, the madness and the knowledge.”

“I didn’t…did I…?” Athelstan stammered. He was sure he had not spoken.

Floki did not answer how he knew Athelstan’s thoughts, returning to the matter at hand. “The madness comes to all those who are called. When the Norns speak, you find your way to them and then you find your way back. If you do not find your way back your body will die, either with time or by the hand of one sworn to care for you as you wander.”

“The tether is your body and your body must belong to me,” Ragnar interjected, seeing the questioning anxiety in his face. “It will respond to me, even in the darkest moments, and that will give you call to return to it.”

Athelstan looked at him, then at Floki. “You…you did this, too.”

Floki nodded.

“And the Seer,” Ragnar said. He turned Athelstan’s face to his. “The Seer’s tether was weakened and it caused the man’s soul to be lost for three days. His tether grew impatient, was angry and embittered by loss. The cost was what you see now, the scars on the Seer’s face.”

“What did his tether do? Who was it?”

The two men traded glances and Ragnar answered. “His tether set him aflame, whether to call him back or end was never said. The tether was Haraldson.”

Athelstan was speechless.

“Theirs was not as…pleasant a tethering as ours will be,” Ragnar told him, eye brows lifting in attempted humor.

Wishing he could wipe the thoughts from his mind, Athelstan squeezed his eyes shut. Hard. “And yours?” he said, opening them to face Floki.

After a pause, during which Floki sought Ragnar’s gaze and smiled, he told Athelstan, “Ragnar is my tether, as well. Which is why I tell you to trust him. He saved me and he will save you, if you let him.”

 

 *****

 

“Tell no one of this.” It was well past the moon’s zenith, yet Ragnar spoke quietly.

“Of course,” Floki answered, nodding, though Ragnar did not trust his grin.

“Not even Lagertha.”

“Do you think me stupid?” Floki asked, accusation in his voice. He slapped the side of Ragnar’s head. “Do you think I don’t know what men would do to have the power of a harvest without a summer?”

Ragnar rubbed his eyes. “There is no song that speaks of such a gift. As much as it moves me, Floki, it frightens me the same.”

“It may never happened again, you know. Loki does not make a habit of sending his power through mortals, no matter how strongly they are called. Still, it is better to be the fool now instead of later.”

“Agreed.” Ragnar smiled and waved his friend away.

The euphoria had faded. The warm wind was now replaced with chilly anxiety. The reality of what they’d seen began to take root and the fears that shot up from the planting were quick to grab, hard to detach. This secret must be kept at all costs, for Athelstan’s protection, if not the entire village’s.

Feeling the cold more acutely, Ragnar returned to the hut. A fire burned in the brazier, enough to warm the room and cast lovely bronze flickers of light. In it, Athelstan’s ivory skin looked burnished, his eyes like polished jewels, and Ragnar paused. He stared, standing against the door closed behind him.

Athelstan withstood the scrutiny for as long as he could, his hands nervously plucking at the smock’s stitching. “What is it?” he asked, wary of the silence.

“Were you always...?” The right word would not come.

“Always what?”

Ragnar breathed deep through his nose. He moved closer and settled crossed-legged beside the pallet. “As you are; so…different.”

Athelstan frowned. His eyes took on a troubled look. “I had few chances to see myself, as a child, and I have few memories from then.”

“You remember some, though,” Ragnar urged.

“I remember seeing myself in a pool of water and thinking that I was without color, that I had been painted in black and white where my brothers were more the colors of the forest.” Athelstan shifted, pulled a blanket over his lower half.

Ragnar reached out and slowly tugged it away. “How old were you then?”

“I was very small, perhaps six or seven.”

“When did you go to that place? To Lindisfarne?”

“I had just passed my tenth summer,” Athelstan answered.

“Did something happen? Right before they took you?”

There was no answer.

“Athelstan, tell me.”

Looking away, the other said in a whisper. “A man came to my parents late one night. I was supposed to be sleeping, but I heard them talking.”

“What did he say?” Ragnar stretched his arm and wrapped his fingers around Athelstan’s ankle. Gently, he pulled until he could rest the other’s foot in his lap. He began to rub circles into the arch, smiling when he felt Athelstan jump.

“ _Ah_ , he...ah…he wanted… _Ragnar_ ,” he stammered,  gasping as he tried to free himself.

“What?” He pressed harder and Athelstan shivered. Pleased, he said, “If you answer, I’ll do the other one.”

“He wanted to…buy me.”

Ragnar paused, looked up to see Athelstan’s eyes on his hands, watching them caress his foot. Giving a final squeeze, he set that one down and reached for the other. “You went shortly after that, didn't you?”

Athelstan nodded, blinking rapidly.

“Do you know what he wanted you for?” There was no answer, and this time, Ragnar did not push. His fingers moved up, stroking the thin, sharp line behind Athelstan’s ankle and stopping before the swell of his calf. To reach more, he needed to be closer. So he gripped and pulled.

The pallet gathered between them as Athelstan slid closer. He gasped, startled at the sudden movement, and was forced to catch himself on his hands as he fell back. When Ragnar’s thumbs dug into the curve of his calf, Athelstan made a face caught between pain and glee. He jerked under Ragnar’s hands.

Grinning, Ragnar did it again.

“Stop!” Athelstan cried, choking on his laughter. He brought his other foot up to push Ragnar away, but it was taken and laid atop the other knee.

“Baldr’s kiss fell upon you there,” Ragnar told him with a smile. “It makes you laugh.”

“Baldr?”

Ragnar raised his brows. “You do not know Baldr?”

“Who is he? Another warrior god?”

“He is second son of Odin, Thor’s brother, Bringer of Light and Joy,” Ragnar told him, leaning forward. He put his palms to the floor and rose to his knees. Now he could crawl the short distance to Athelstan’s mouth. “He is wise and forgiving, gentle and loving, and beautiful above all other gods. He is beloved of the Aesir, precious to them like no other.”

Athelstan stared at him, fascinated but doubtful. “You have such a god? Not a fighter, but wise and gentle?”

Moving slowly, Ragnar advanced, hands on either side of Athelstan shifting only an inch a time. “You think wise men don’t fight? That a gentle heart could find no reason to take up arms?”

This gave Athelstan pause. He frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Ragnar continued.

“A truly wise man knows that some battles cannot be avoided. He acts quickly, sparing life where he can.” They were face to face now. Ragnar could see the different shades of blue and grey in Athelstan’s eyes, for they were open wide and focused solely on him. “Baldr, in his kindness and his wisdom, knows when to be hard” he bent his head, kissed Athelstan’s parted lips “and when to be soft.”

 

***** 

 

Soft was not a word often associated with Ragnar. To Athelstan, the man was solid rock, in spirit as well as form. So it was with some surprise that he found himself taken with care and sweet kisses, followed by sweeter words. His bruises were counted with Ragnar’s lips, the cut and tender skin of his wrists and thighs were traced with his tongue. The gentle tasting of wounds moved to his cock and he was suckled, a pleasure so new and alarming he wept. There could be nothing more wondrous than Ragnar’s mouth on him. He was sure of it.

Until Ragnar turned him over to sweep his tongue over the raw and aching hole. It was wet and warm and bliss that had him crying into the furs. He called Ragnar’s name, chanted it in song until he was spread open and licked _inside_.  Athelstan fairly screamed then. He rose to his knees, kept them wide in both supplication and offering, and pressed his face into the pallet. Ragnar laughed against him, one hand on his hip to keep him steady while the other slipped down to pull and squeeze his cock. Within moments Athelstan was spilling his plentiful, youthful seed once more.

Ragnar stretched out beside him, shucked the wet blanket away and pulled Athelstan close. There was a moment of disarray while he arranged Athelstan’s limbs to his liking, and then they settled. Pressed against Ragnar’s side, arm and leg thrown over his body, Athelstan was warm and content, and he closed his eyes in search of sleep.

He had believed himself beyond thought, so exhausted he would sleep the rest of the nine days. Surely no one could maintain this level of carnal enterprise for so long. His youth perhaps gave him some mettle but even a young man would weaken with such strain. He tried to rest and clear his mind.

Yet his thoughts ever flowed like a wheel upon a stream.

“I can’t do this, Ragnar. Not for nine days. It will kill me.”

“Or make you strong,” Ragnar answered, tweaking his nipple a touch to hard.

“Stop that,” Athelstan hissed. Had he been less drained he would have pulled away. As it was, he had to fight his own lethargy to bat the fingers from his chest. “I’ve had enough for one day.”

“And if I want more, you will give it,” Ragnar said, his simple answer more threatening for his careless calm.

He returned to twist and pull at the flesh until Athelstan cried out. “Is this _your_ wisdom, to take me when I cannot say no? To hurt me even when I am not lost?”

Ragnar stopped, looked down into his eyes, and was no longer calm. “There is reason behind everything, wisdom you don’t understand. You swore you would trust me. Do you revoke that trust now?”

“And if I do?” Athelstan found strength in his anger and shoved away from him. “If I refuse the next time?”

With a tilt of his head, a look that Athelstan knew was more dangerous than the loudest promise of peril, Ragnar told him, “I will bind you, and take you anyway.”

The words chilled. Yet at the same time, Athelstan felt a sort of breathless expectancy twined with the cold. “You wouldn’t.”

“I already have.” Ragnar smiled now and pulled him close once more, bound him with arms and legs as strong as chains. “Do you trust me? Think, Athelstan, and know that this is the last time I will ask.”

Athelstan did not answer. He was breathing too quickly, his head hurt and his fingers convulsed against Ragnar’s chest. He hated the weak, mewling sounds he made on each breath, hated that he hadn’t the strength to strike back. “How? How do you expect me to do this, to give everything to you when you hurt me?”

“I didn’t hurt you this time,” Ragnar said, his menacing growl now a warm, rumbling purr. “You moaned for me, called my name as you once called for your god.” He paused for a moment, let that sink into Athelstan’s mind, his heart. “You know the answer to your question, _priest_.”

The epithet was a blasphemy when spoken with such carnal intonation. If Athelstan felt any shame, it was in the pleasure the sound gave him. He knew he was lost now. Not only to the wandering and seeking of gods, but to the mindless, physical craving growing within him. He was afraid of being trapped forever, of being unable to break this cycle of madness.

Athelstan shuddered and voiced his fear. “If I do this, put my trust in you, and then fail…”

“You have felt the touch of the _Aesir_ , Athelstan. The breath of Loki blew through you into the world.” Ragnar gentled his hold and brought a hand to lay against Athelstan’s cheek. “You will not fail.”

No one had ever looked at Athelstan with such… _faith_.

Ragnar trusted him, had from the beginning. Trusted him with the care of his children. Trusted the truth of his answers and the fervor of his devotion to family, to life. Ragnar had never wavered in his conviction that Athelstan was _good_ , strong enough to face this volatile life on the edge of the world and flourish. Despite their clashing doctrines and the daily challenges, Ragnar believed in _him._

The truth of it rolled through him like thunder, struck his soul as if Thor himself wielded his hammer.

“What happens then, Ragnar?” Athelstan whispered. “What if I give you this, and then you are taken away from me?”

“I don’t know, but I know I will fight for you,” Ragnar said, just as softly. “I would have you beside me, whether you be Christian or _Seidr_ , slave, or free.”

“Your family…”

“Lagertha would have you here. She has always wanted that.”

“The gods, Ragnar, the cost.”

“I will face that when it comes.” Ragnar stroked his hair back. “I won’t lose you. Will you say it?”

It was easier this time. “I trust you.”

Ragnar smiled and released a heavy breath. He pressed gentle kisses to Athelstan’s face and gathered him close as he lay back. “Good. Good.”

With Ragnar’s heart beating steady and sure beneath his ear, Athelstan fell asleep.

 

*****

 

The magic was gone with the sun.

Ragnar breathed a sigh of relief. A _Seidr,_ he could handle. Relaying the words of the gods would be enough for any man. Becoming a conduit to their power…that could prove too much. It would certainly have been more than he, by himself, could bear. He was honest in that. Word would fly and others would come; asking, demanding, or taking. The village would have been laid waste or forced to give Athelstan up, and Ragnar would have died protecting him. He knew it would be valiant and have him in the Hall as he wished, but he was not ready to die yet.

He needed to talk to his wife, his children. He needed to hear the requests and needs of his people. He cursed the gods for their choice of time, for they could have brought this forward months ago. Before he became earl and his life filled with responsibility. Rubbing his eyes, he made his way to the hall to greet those within. He trudged wearily through the snow, longing for more sleep, a hunk of meat, and a tall ale.

As bad as he felt, he felt sorrier still for Athelstan. The man had been plagued by dreams, or visions, waking in terrors or crying out in sleep. When Ragnar had left the hut at dawn, Athelstan had watched him go with haunted eyes. Again, he wondered at the wisdom of his gods, to take a man who followed another, an innocent, peaceful man who had no desire to fight, and thrust upon him the calling. It was fearsome for those who knew every tale, every name and realm. For a foreigner who knew nothing of their ways, it would have to be terrifying.

“Ragnar.” Lagertha was standing at the table with bread and meat and, gods be praised for a wife so wonderful, ale. He took the pitcher, foregoing the cup, and tilted it to his mouth. “You look horrid. How is he? Is it bad?” she asked, eyeing him as he tore into the meat.

He pulled her close with an arm around her waist, and kissed her cheek. “It’s bad. Athelstan is like a child in so many ways. He understands nothing of what is happening to him.”

“He’s clever, husband. He will learn quickly, you’ll see.” She urged him to sit and continue his meal.

“Will it be quick enough?” Ragnar asked, losing interest in the food. He rubbed his face, scratched his beard, and gave her a small smile. “He fights other battles, of faith and spirit, which others called did not.”

She nodded and sat beside him. “His vows, and his god, they still hold him. He takes his commitment very seriously. It’s not as if we didn’t know this. You saved Floki, and he was four days into the calling when you found him. I think you will save Athelstan, too.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m doing it wrong?” Ragnar asked, too tired to hide his fears. “Why do I feel like I’m killing him as surely as they are?”

Lagertha took his hand, smiling proudly and with love. “Because you feel many things for him, things that make it difficult for you to do him harm.”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not true.”

She cocked a brow and waited.

“Lagertha…I _like_ it.” He was whispering, afraid of being heard by anyone else. “It gives me so much pleasure, so much joy, to see him hurting. His tears fall and my blood burns. When I strike him, I only want to do it again, just to see his skin darken. I want to flog him. I want to put him in chains. I want to carve my name in his flesh and lick the blood from his body.”

She laughed, high and pretty and it rankled.

“It isn’t funny! Something is wrong with me. Gods, I can feel it now, just remembering the sound of my hand on his skin.”

“Ragnar, my love. You are so dear to me, but you are sometimes a great fool. Only you would find misery in this pleasure,” she soothed, running her hand over his braids. She tugged one, hard enough to jerk his head back. “You think you are the only one to have these feelings? It’s a heady thing to have someone in your power, and all the more delicious when it is given over freely.”

He stared at her, astonished.

“Don’t look at me like that. I had a life once, before you, and a lover who taught me things,” she said, scolding and teasing at the same time. Her fingers trailed down his cheek and spoke low into his ear. “She taught me many things, some of which you have felt. In the beginning, remember? How I would tease you, keep you there until you wept for me? Or the nights I made you tend to me on your knees?”

Ragnar _did_ remember. He swallowed, surprised how quickly the memories could stir his ardor. “You never spoke of this lover.”

“You never asked.”

Her smile was smug and inviting, and just a little cruel. He’d never wanted her so much. “Woman, do you seek to drive me mad? And you with child?”

“Oh, Ragnar,” she said, laughing again. She dug her nails into his neck. “I will always be able to handle you.”

Leaning in to kiss her, he asked her, “Will you help me? With Athelstan? With this want that burns me?”

“I will,” Lagertha said, stopping him by pulling his braids again. “When you’ve eaten, bathed, and slept.”

He tried to hold her, pull her close, but she caught his bottom lip and twisted it down.

“Don’t,” she warned and let him go. “Or I will make sure you are very, very sorry.”

Sighing, he picked up the bread. “Just as well, for I have something to tell you that you may not like.”

Ragnar relayed the story of the magic as he ate and she was as alarmed as he had been.

“That is…” she said, trying to find words for her feelings.

“It was beautiful, Lagertha, but it was troubling all the same.”

She nodded. “Yes, that is a good word. And the clearing is normal now, you say?”

“Back to winter, thank the gods. You are the only other person who knows outside of the three of us.”

“Good.” She handed him the ale again, having made sure he ate every morsel of food. “Unless it happens again, we will not speak of it. It is good that you told me, though, so that I can be ready if something should arise.”

Ragnar was tired, but agitated. Thoughts of his wife, kneeling over him with her wicked smile and clever hands, kept him running at a fever pitch. “You spoke of a bath, woman.”

Lagertha gave him that smile, and her hands were as clever as always as they moved down his chest to twist his nipples through the smock. “Try to keep up, Odin-son.”

 

Ragnar woke in their bed, his body aching in places he’d not felt in…years. Smiling, he stretched long and lazy, grateful for Lagertha in all ways. She’d gone to the bathing hut with him, cleaned him head to toe and in all the secrets she wanted to explore. Just that thoroughness, her fingers slipping into him, had hardened his cock. She had left that alone, even back in their room, prolonging his release as she’d promised.

He had rings on his wrists to match Athelstan’s now, for she’d bound him to the wall. She’d also bound his ankles to his thighs, tightly pressed, so that he could not thrust or maneuver against her will. Then she’d used her fingers in him, torturously slow and gentle, making him beg over and over until she deigned to mount him.

“If you come before I say, Ragnar, we will have to start over,” she’d whispered as she straddled his hips. He groaned, nearly wept at the thought of it, but he obeyed.

He’d longed to put his hands on her belly, to feel the swell of it as she moved, for he found her more beautiful than ever like this. She was full of life, full of song and still strong and ready. He had told her he loved her, told her she was his sun and sky, and then told her again. She’d ridden him forever and found her release twice before she reached behind her, balanced against his knees, and thrust her fingers into his ass again.

“Come now, Ragnar. Let me see you.”

Obeying had never been so satisfying.

Ragnar had plainly seen the pleasure it gave her to torment him. He’d known, of course, that she was always thrilled with his body. The control, the way she could bend that body to her will, he’d never thought to question before. It was a sublime indulgence she’d refrained from as the children had grown. They’d strived to keep as equals since Bjorn had come and he now realized he’d missed it. He’d cherished this side of her and relished his role.

There had been more he wanted to say, but he’d gone into blissful oblivion before he could say them.

 

 *****

 

Athelstan wanted to go outside. He wanted open air, fresh and cool on his skin. He longed for the blue sky. For crisp snow and clear water.

He had no boots. No clothes. No cloak. Even the tunic Ragnar had put on him the night before was gone.

Even as he lamented these things, he knew he would not go even if he’d had them. He was so tired, weak and feverish, hardly able to lift his head. He waited for someone to bring him food and stared at the roof. It would not be long now. He closed his eyes.

Not long.

There was a scratch, as if someone wanted entrance, so without thought he rose to answer it. The door was already open and beside it, hanging on a peg, was a long black cloak. Athelstan wrapped himself in it, marveling at its lightness and warmth. Its length allowed him to wind it twice around his body and still have long, trailing pieces from his arms and at his feet. He took a deep breath and stepped through the open portal.

The wind blew steady in his face and the sky was so blue. It was joy just to see it and know he stood under it. From where he perched he could see the whole of the valley; smoke from the vents in thatched roofs, small dark shapes moving from house to house, the beautiful water of the harbor. It was peaceful below and silent above, calming his feverish thoughts.

Athelstan stayed there, watching the day progress in quiet reflection. It was easy to think of his promise to Ragnar now, wrapped in soft warmth and blessedly free of the hut. It was easier still to think of the things they’d done. That _he’d_ done. Two times now he’d offered his body to Ragnar’s use. He'd _begged_ for it, twice in as many days. There had been no doubt as he’d done it, only thoughts of pleasing, both himself and his master. No fears as he’d taken what was given. Only after, when the ecstasy had waned and he felt the pains and aches, did he question. What had he become?

He had admitted to himself long since coming here…since being taken, he amended… that he desired Ragnar. It had been a hard truth to face, but to defeat sin one had to accept it. He wanted to blame this calling, the thing that stole his mind and his spirit, but he knew that would be false. He was the true bearer of this guilt, even if, in this calm, rational moment, he did not feel guilty, at all.

If he were to admit anything, it would be that he felt free. Freer than he’d ever known. Recalling the way Ragnar held him, the way he looked at him even without desire in his eyes, excited him to his core. He’d convinced himself it was ownership, and he, as a slave, was only worthy so long as he was useful. But when Ragnar asked for his surrender, looked into his face and demanded it, there was something else.

He only wished he knew what it was.

It felt as if much time had passed. He was tired again, actually wanting his dirty, smelly pallet and strangely cozy hut. He stretched his arms over his head, felt the cloak flutter around him and smiled. Then he took a breath and stepped off of the cliff to let the wind catch him. His feathers were sleek and shiny in the sun and he knew just how to move them to glide down to the valley floor. The hut was just ahead, he could see himself lying just inside the doorway. With just a thought, he landed gracefully on the reeds and rushes and reached to unwind the cloak.

_You travel, Midgardian._

“I…what?”

_You travel, by means of the wind. How did you find the cloak?_

Athelstan opened his eyes. And was amazed.

He lay beside a gate and through bars of gold spilled a light of many colors, _all_ colors. It shimmered warm on his skin, veiled as though he could see heat rising from its touch. It healed his bruises as he watched. The cloak was pooled around and beneath him leaving him naked to his eyes, and to the eyes of the man who knelt at his feet.

It was not a giant, this time, but a large man. A _huge_ man, wide and long and bound in muscle. His hair was white but not like snow. It was purest gold turned white, falling thick and straight over a broad, bare chest to stop at his waist. His blunt brows, lashes, and even his beard were all of the same color. His eyes were the palest blue Athelstan had ever seen, more pale than deep ice and direct in their attention. The man’s skin was almost translucent, as if ivory had been shaved to vellum-thin sheets with which to wrap him. There were ink markings winding up the man’s arms, on his chest. They continued up to his neck, becoming so fine and intricate Athelstan could not make out where they ended or began. At his waist was a mighty horn, from a beast so large it would fill the entire hall. It was decorated in gold, and held there by a thick belt of white fur. His boots were also made of the fur, and his trousers were of supple, pale golden leather, tucked in at the knee-high tops of the boots. He was as beautiful as Loki had been, but more…human.

When the light beyond the gate fell on him, he became all colors, reflecting too bright for Athelstan’s eyes. He closed them and wrapped the cloak about his body to hide his weak, mortal form.

Athelstan knew who this was. The Guardian of the Bifrost. Heimdallr.

_How did you find the cloak?_

“It was there. I did not look for it.”

The face of the god was frowning, but it did not seem menacing.

_You found it beside you?_

“Yes.”

_Nothing else? What did you see before?_

“I heard a scratch. I thought someone was at my door. When I rose to see, the cloak was there, on a peg,” Athelstan said. “As if it were waiting for me.”

A knowing look came over the god’s face.

 _Ah. I see. And you wore it_. Athelstan nodded. _Did you fly?_

“Did I…?” He remembered the wind, seeing the village so far below him, and the endless blue sky. “I think I did,” Athelstan whispered.

This brought a smile. Then a laugh so booming, Athelstan felt it in his bones.

 _That was well done, Midgardian. Well done, indeed. Now, can you fly home?_  


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, this will make sense with the next chapter.

Ragnar stepped into the sun well past noon. He had been fed, watered and bathed. He had been given his wife’s glorious passion, wrung ragged with it, truly, and left to sleep the morning through. Lagertha held counsel and dispensed her wisdom soundly. The petitioners left more than satisfied, and were beginning to realize the usurpation would not be a danger, but a benefit.

With glad thanks Ragnar embraced Lagertha, kissed her soundly and declared her a wife above all others, worthy of Odin himself. He had those still gathered in the hall hail her name, even as she swatted at his head and pushed him away. “Get out of here! Get out and feel the sun on your face before I flatten in with my shield.” Her order was stern, but the smile on her face was all love.

So, he found himself standing in the open center of the village, grinning up at the sky. There were no clouds, no threat of snow, just the sun shining down from the clear endless blue. All would be well, he decided. All would be right.

When Helga ran to him, hair flying behind her in her haste, he felt his heart stop.

“Ragnar! Come now!” She took his arm and pulled along.

“What is it?”

“Come with me, I will tell you as we go.”

“Tell me, Helga, what has happened?” He couldn’t run, as much as he wished to, but he did take long steps. She was having trouble keeping up.

“He won’t wake! Floki asked me to tend him and watch him until midday. I could not get him to eat. When I went to tell Floki he came quickly. He has been there with him for hours.”

Ragnar viciously swore and let her go.  He ran the path to storm the door, throwing it open without announcement. “He was awake this morning, Floki.  I left at dawn. He was awake and aware then, I tell you.”

Floki was holding a cup to Athelstan’s lips, forcing water into his mouth. He had to rub his throat to get it into his stomach. “He will not rouse, for food, threat or strap. He has gone into the trace.”

“How could he go into the trance? He’s had no _vinlauss_ and he has not had time to learn how without it,” Ragnar snapped. He fell to his knees, hands going to Athelstan’s face. “Floki what are they doing to him?”

Athelstan’s eyes were open a small bit, the blue rolled back to show only white. His mouth was loose and slack, corners wet with spittle that dribbled out. There were new, vivid cuts across his chest where Floki had struck him. He had no life in his limbs, no presence at all. Only his breathing and the unnatural heat that poured from him gave any indication that he still lived. Ragnar’s hands moved down his body, seeking any reaction to verify that there was still some essence left, when he noticed Athelstan’s neck.

The marks were gone. The bruises Ragnar had left just the night before were completely faded. The raw circles on his wrists, even the deep kiss of the strap across his thighs…all healed. He touched the places they were, memorized by his lips mere hours ago, and looked up at Floki.

“All healed,” the man said, His smile was grim but his eyes were bright. “Watch these, on his chest.”

There were three cuts a moment ago, still wet and sticky. Now their color had changed from the dark red of blood to the pink of new flesh. Ragnar touched them, felt a strange thrumming energy beneath his fingertips. He ran a shaky hand over his face and called to his gods. “Odin, Frigga…I do not see your plan. What is it you want from him?” he muttered, staring into Athelstan’s face.

“If he heals, my lord, he is not wandering,” Helga said, her small fingers closing on his arm.

“She’s right, Ragnar. The healing marks means he is in the presence of one of them, not lost among the realms. So, there is that, I suppose,” Floki added, a hopeful not in his voice.

“This should not have happened. He should not have been able to fall into the trance so soon, and without the drink. What do we do? It’s only the third day. If he stays in this state he will not survive,” Ragnar asked. There was a new feeling in his chest. It was building, slowly but with sturdy mortar. He doubted. He felt fear that this would take Athelstan away, after all. It undermined his faith in the Aesir, in Odin, and it actually hurt his heart. He had a new, sudden empathy for Athelstan and what he faced, and he found he doubted himself, now, too.

“We wait, for now,” Floki answered. “You won’t be able to pull him out, this we know. If he takes to wandering you will be able to wake him, so we will have to wait and watch.”

Ragnar stood and paced outside. He stared up at the sun and shouted. “It would please me greatly if you were to reconsider this!”

The sun shone down on him. Silent.

 

***** 

 

_Flying!_

He was flying! So high that the clouds themselves surrounded him. Even when he dropped lower, the tree tops were still distant. Save one, and he could see the limbs and leaves of that one growing ever higher, higher than the peaks where the magnificent halls rested. The mountains were lovely, all green with eternal summer. The grand structures atop each shone and shimmered, dusted with stars. He could reach those halls, he knew he could, for the wind was his road and his wings did not tire.

He went into a spiral, sailing down towards the mist below. His voice rang out in the stillness, calling. He was calling but for what? Catching the upwards draft, he flew back to the clouds. He had a mind to see that tree, the big one growing out and up, so he swept towards it. He called out again and it called back.

_“Rawc! Rawc!”_

What did he call for? Why did he listen for a reply?

So sweet to fly. How had he not known before? He would fly forever, never set his feet upon the earth again. Except to go home.

What was home?

Fly, fly, _fly to the tree_.

But the wind was suddenly gone from beneath him. He beat his wings, bent his feathers in his desperation, but he still found the earth. It knocked the air from his lungs and his cloak fell away.

Athelstan was dazed, staring up at…stone? Where was the sky? He opened his mouth and dust filled it, filled his nose, too. He choked and sat up. Or, he tried to sit up. He was held tight to the rock beneath him. There were chains on his arms and legs, across his chest. They moved, coiled around him like serpents, slender and strong and frightening. He was pinned, spread naked and vulnerable, and heard whispers in the shadows around him.

_You seek, child. You are curious._

“Who are you? Why do you chain me?” he asked, struggling against the writhing bonds.

_We do not bind you. Your chains are in the Midgaard. You let them hold you there._

“These things on me are chains! You put them on me and you say you do not bind me!”

_They chain your flesh. They seek to keep your spirit trapped so that you may not fly._

“Who are they? Who are you?”

_They want only your gift. You do not need them. We will help you._

“You speak of them, again, yet you tell me no names. You are the ones that have chained me!” These whispers panicked him more than the clanging of the other voices. He was pulling at the chains as hard as he could.

_They fear you. They wish to clip your wings._

“Release me! Now!” The chains were cutting him, still moving as they sliced into his flesh.

_You will come to us. They will not stop us._

“I want to go home! Let me go home!” Athelstan was shouting at them, spitting in his fury.

Then the skin began to peel away from his body. He screamed.

_You will be free of death. Leave them behind._

“Ragnar!”

“Athelstan!”

That voice, there! He knew it. He had called for it. He pulled himself free of the chains, leaving his skin behind.

_Moonandwolfandteethandbloodofthemoon._

“No! No, not now! I heard him! Please!” He tried to cover his ears but his skinless hands slid off of his head. The sound was wet and visceral. It made him vomit.

_Devourthemoonbatheinitsblood._

“Be quiet! Please, be quiet!”

Blood dripped from his nose. His eyes swelled and burst. He could feel wetness, spilling from where his ears had been.

_Moonburnswolfdoesnotburnflamedevoursall._

“Ragnar! Help me!”

His words were not words, merely the call of the raven lost in the mountains.

The pain consumed him, sweeping through his head, his heart, razing over the raw, exposed nerves of his flayed body. He was screaming, endlessly, lost in a forever of torment.

“Athelstan!”

He was weighted down, crushed, unable to even breathe this time. He couldn’t see or hear. The pain receded, just a bit, and he could feel his flesh returning. It burned, but it was soon whole and tight around his spirit. He took a sharp breath, fighting the pressure on his back that scoured his new skin. His whole body, inside and out, was too sensitive, too tender. Even the puffs of air on the back of his head were too much.

“Athelstan, ride it. Stop fighting it. Ride it out.” The voice was good. He focused on it. “Come home, now. You need to come home.”

“Ragnar?”

“Athelstan!”

His ears, so newly healed, felt pierced through once more.

“Gods…Athelstan…Athelstan…”

Hot, wet kisses moved across his shoulders but they felt like drops of boiling oil. He shuddered and tried to crawl away but found himself trapped. He opened his eyes, struggled to see through their newness, and saw a large hand on his wrist. It held so tight that his fingers were twitching.

“Let go,” he said, so softly he could barely hear himself. “Let me go.”

The weight at his back lifted and his wrists were released. He took a deep breath. His skin began to cool, at last. The spears through his head began to withdraw. Sensations began to reappear; broken reeds beneath him, grit in his hands and on his cheek, his damp hair sticking to his neck and his forehead. The rank smell of vomit reached his nose, threatening to sicken him. He turned his face into the dirt and pressed it there. “Ragnar,” he said, into the ground.

A gentle hand stroked his head. “I’m here.”

“Talk to me. Your voice is…good.” He fought the urge to retch. “Please. I need to hear it.”

There was a moment of silence. He heard a hitching breath. Then another. “What would you like me to say?”

Closing his eyes, Athelstan said, “Tell me…who lives…beneath the stone.”

 

*****

 

Ragnar was shaken. To his core. His exhaustion pulled at him, but he sat next to Athelstan and pet his hair, finding his own comfort in the action. “Beneath the mountains and hills is _Svartalfaheimr_. It is the realm of dark elves, creatures forbidden to seek the sun for they would turn to stone at the smallest touch of its light.”

“Why would they want me?”

“Is that where you’ve been?”

“I was flying,” Athelstan whispered. His words were a backwards image of the rest of the day’s, slow and soft, where they had been loud, rushed, filled with pain. His voice was rough and cracked from the hours spent screaming. “I fell. I fell a long way and hit the ground so hard. And then there were chains on me. They…they came from the stone. I was surrounded by stone and shadow. I was alone in the shadows and they were…whispering to me.”

Ragnar took a moment, struggling with his own distress. He stretched out beside Athelstan, not touching, but close enough to feel the fever seep through his tunic. “Athelstan, can you turn to me? Please?”

He hated the way his voice broke, the desperate plea behind the words. The day past had tested his control and his endurance easily has much as battle. His weakness, his uselessness…they tormented him. His doubt ate away at his confidence and made him so very afraid. It was plain to see in his countenance, for he moved with none of the power and grace he used with such impunity. He was sure it showed on his face, that his lines were deeper, his eyes shadowed. Certainly, it would reveal itself in his voice, too.

Athelstan stirred, shifting slowly onto his stomach. The dirt stuck to him but he noticed or cared not. When he lay flat, he turned his head to rest upon his other cheek. “Why am I…so tired?” he asked, dragging his arm beneath him to try and twist over to his side.

“You’ve been in the trance. For more than a day.” Ragnar’s answer startled him, but he only had strength enough to frown. “A day?”

“The whole of yesterday, from the time I left you. It is midmorning, next,” Ragnar explained. “For most of it, you were unreachable. We could get no water or food into you. Since late last night, you’ve been…you were lost. Nothing I did would pull you back. I thought you were lost.”

One of Athelstan’s hand crept towards him. It was dirty, bloody, and shaking, but it moved with purpose. “I’m here now.”

Ragnar took it and put its palm to his cheek. “Thank the gods.”

“Help me, Ragnar. Pull me close?” Athelstan asked him.

Elated by the request, Ragnar complied. He kept his hands gentle and his movements careful. Sliding more fully into Athelstan’s space, he slipped one arm beneath the other’s head and wrapped the other around his waist. “Gods, you…I thought…” he whispered, once his cheek rest against Athelstan’s forehead.

“You feel good,” Athelstan replied, sluggishly pushing one leg between his thighs. “Maybe we should sleep a while, and talk…later.

Ragnar’s own eyes burned and felt raw. He felt raw all over, if truth be told. “Perhaps.”

He pressed a kiss to Athelstan’s dirty forehead and fell asleep before his lips pulled away.

 

*****

 

There was broth in his mouth, so he swallowed. It was almost cold. The next mouthful, he spit out.

“Odin’s tits!”

The curse was close. He thought he knew the voice.

“You must swallow it, or you will die.”

A different voice, above him. It was gentle but firm.

“No,” he whispered, turning his head.

“Athelstan.” Resolve usurped all tenderness. “Eat the broth.”

“I can’t.”

“Just swallow it, Athelstan. I will do the work.”

The broth was back, poured slowly and carefully into his mouth. He obeyed, taking the nourishment though he did not want it. When it was finished, he was given water. He swallowed that, as well. His face was wiped with a cool, soft cloth. “Ragnar?”

“Ragnar is sleeping. He will return, I promise.” The gentleness was back. It made him think of sunshine on the water.

“You’ve worn him out, priest.” The one who’d cursed. This voice brought the dark green of the forest and the silver gleam of morning dew.

The cloth moved down his neck and over his chest. The coolness was treasure no golden bracelet could match.

“Floki, lift him higher. Let me get his back.”

He was tipped up until his head fell forward, his cheek settling against bare flesh. It smelled of mist on feathers and clear winds. Sniffing, he pressed his face where he could smell it best. He groaned, inhaled with his mouth open so it could coat his tongue. He heard a laugh, a giggle, and then there were fingers in his hair. “You tempt me, priest, but my head is fond of its home and wishes not to be separated.”

When water dripped onto his back, he shivered. “You smell…”he whispered, lips brushing skin, “like…flying.”

He was stroked by the wet rag, long swipes down his back while he head was gently massaged. There was a whisper in his ear. “I’ve taken wing, child, many times. The mist clings, and follows us back.”

His mouth moved, his tongue extended, and he _tasted_.

The hand in his hair twitched. It tightened and pulled him away. “Lagertha, you must hurry.”

“You can’t handle one boy, Floki?” Humor colored the words.

“Oh, I could handle him, and with great pleasure, but as I told him, I value my head where it’s at.”

Soft, musical laughter filled the air around him.

_Such fuss. I’ve never seen so much effort for someone so small. Are you worth it?_

“I’m sorry?”

Athelstan opened his eyes. He felt them widen and his jaw go slack, at what he saw.

The hall was immense, disappearing into a starry sky above. He could see the walls, for they shimmered with a myriad of blues, but he could also see through them into the meadow beyond. There were great fires burning with people dancing around them. He tilted his head and squinted, blushing when he realized they did more than dance. There were others, crowded into the endless space, all naked and gleaming gold. All…copulating, in twos and threes and more.

_Cop-u-la-ting? What a ponderous word. Fucking, Midgardian. It’s called fucking._

He turned. The man who’d spoken…well, no…he was not a man. Athelstan knew the signs now. The god reclined on a bed of furs, lying on his side in invitation. He was the color of aged oak, smooth all over save for his head. His long hair was black, blacker than any ink or stain, as black as a cold fire. His eyes were vivid dark yellow, almost golden, and painted around with black to look like a cat’s. The body was trim, not the thick proportions of his brother’s but still strong, still finely carved like a statue. He wore nothing but a golden belt, and a grin.

Athelstan had thought himself accustomed to nudity by now, but the cock that lay against his stomach was enormous, hard and ready, so thick and long it looked like a club. He found himself unable to turn his eyes away from it. He licked his lips and swallowed, swaying as his heart and breath both quickened.

_Oh, my…such response, such eagerness. Perhaps you are worth a bit of trouble. Come closer. Sit by me._

Enthralled, he found himself sinking into the luxurious furs.  A dark hand came out to lift his chin and force him to look up into the blazing, golden eyes. Then it moved, fingers sliding down his throat, past his shoulders, to circle his nipple. Looking down at himself, watching the touch as it continued, he saw himself equally nude and so hard with want he was leaking. He moaned, soft as breath, and felt the god sit up.

 _Well, this is a surprise. No one has ever been quite this…guileless._ Another dark hand landed on his back and slid down. _Men, you see, always want their way. Most fight my call, will not come to me, and then I am forced to destroy them. Some will yield, but only just enough. When I go to take them they weep and turn frail before my eyes. It’s most discouraging._

When had he been lifted? Why was he now kneeling over the god’s giant phallus? He looked at it, blinked, and swallowed. “I don’t understand.”

_Don’t try, little one. Just sit here, in my lap, and let me hold you._

He was gathered close, held in an embrace that seemed to melt his will away. “Who _are_ you?”

The laughter felt like touching. He shuddered against the smooth, hard chest.

_Look into my eyes, and know me._

Athelstan looked, and drowned in molten gold. As he fought, tried to keep his head above the aurous miasma, it was entering his body through his cock, his ass. It began a long slow burn of his spirit, an endless ecstasy with no promise of release. It would leave him hollow. He wanted to scream but could only moan. He tried to speak, to call a name, and all that came was wordless whimpering.

There were distant voices and he wanted to go to them, but the god’s hands were holding him too tight and his gold pulsed like a living thing inside him.

“He can’t stay like this. It must be torture.”

“Go, wake Ragnar. I will stay with him. Hurry…”

They faded, and he was holding onto the god’s shoulders and his face was wet with tears. He wept from the pain, the extended pleasure without climax. No touch of mouth or hands would ease the torment.

_Oh, you are exceptional! No one has taken as much, and none has ever asked for more._

“Freyr. You are Freyr.”

_Mmm-hmm, well done._

There was a slithering feeling, low in Athelstan’s body that made him jerk and thrust his hips. His head fell back, body going limp in Freyr’s arms.

_Tell me, sweet, why are you here?_

“I don’t know,” Athelstan wept. He could not even lift his head.

The slithering, sliding gold in him sunk to a new place that burned and hurt and felt like Heaven.

He shouted, sobbed, writhed against Freyr’s chest and could not speak.

_You did not fly here? Or come by way of wolf?_

He was weak. He only shook his head. Hands lifted him by his shoulders, pushing him up, settling him farther into the molten heat. His mouth opened to scream but his voice was gone.

_You speak the truth._

“Yes, yes,” he whispered. “I was called. I did not come of my own will.”

 _Called? You are called to find the paths to the Realms?_ The god was angry. He shook Athelstan so hard he felt himself shatter. _I am made a fool. I will find the one who sends me this puppet and have my vengeance!_

Athelstan was thrown, across the hall, through the translucent walls and over the meadow.

_Get out! Get out of my sight!_

 ****

 

The sight stunned Ragnar, brought him up short. “Gods! What is happening?” he shouted.

Floki was on his back, tunic and trousers both torn open. Athelstan was on him, riding him, screaming even as he squeezed Floki’s throat. The man’s eyes were rolled back, but even so, his hips bucked and his fingers dug into Athelstan’s flanks. He suddenly went rigid, grunting through the press of Athelstan’s hands. When Ragnar pulled Athelstan off of him, his cock was still spitting.

Ragnar was beset by a dragon, complete with roars and snapping teeth. Athelstan’s strength was immense, his arms and legs made of iron as they forced Ragnar back into the wall. He felt teeth sink into his throat and was only saved from dreadful injury by Floki’s hand pulling Athelstan’s hair back.

“Sleep, Floki! Send him to sleep!” Ragnar cried, just as Athelstan’s fingers tore into his smock.

Floki covered Athelstan’s face with his other hand, still holding his head while Ragnar fought the grip on him. At the first sign of weakness, he knocked the arms away and pinned the legs to the floor. Athelstan heaved under them, fighting hard enough to drench them all in sweat. When at last he lay limp, Floki lifted his hand and let his breath come. It left him with a whine, a soft, painful sound that did not end. And he still moved, his hips pumping, thrusting his hard cock into Ragnar’s stomach.

“That did not happen with you,” Ragnar said, panting. He put his palm to his throat and it came away bloodied.

The other man barked a laugh that came out garbled. He touched his own throat, fingers finding the bruises there, and winced. He had a mark on his jaw, as well, and gingerly prodded it. “Lagertha had just gone to get you,” he said, coughing for a moment before continuing. He sounded horrid. “And he came out of trance or travel, or wherever he was and hit me. I saw the stars, he hit me so hard. The next thing I knew, he was tearing at my clothes.”

They were ruined. No mending or patching would repair them.

“I would have laughed at the thought, had I not seen it. His anger with us must still be great,” Ragnar said, frowning down at Athelstan. He still whimpered on each breath, still tried in vain to alleviate his painful erection.

Floki shook his head. “His eyes were not angry. He did not curse or rail at me.”

“He marked you, badly. He was angry at something.”

“And he has reason, but I do not think it’s what drove him to this,” Floki answered.

“Are you all right?”

Tilting his head back, Floki closed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at Ragnar. “Yes, I’m…rather well, to be honest. He…when he took me into him, I felt the magic. It made his touch unbearable, in that no matter what he did, I wanted. It made me powerless. I understand, a little more now, how he must feel.”

Ragnar was staring at Athelstan again. Floki took a moment to fashion himself a loincloth with his shredded tunic, then said to his friend, “Whatever has him in its power right now is too strong. I think it hurts and I think it might kill him, if we can’t get it out of him.”

“He doesn’t seem to be in pain.” His fingers hovered over Athelstan’s cock, which was still thick and stiff and so dark it was nearly purple.

“He’s been like that since before he attacked me.”

Ragnar made a pained face. “Get it out of him…” he muttered and bent down. He took Athelstan into his mouth, holding onto the man’s hips, just in case.

Athelstan jerked awake, immediately, with a low, throaty growl. He reached for Ragnar but Floki pulled his hands up, held them secure over his head. There was a snarl on his lips that displayed sharp, white teeth and his brow furrowed over eyes gone wild and untamed. No words came from him, but a steady rumble vibrated in his chest.

“He wears the wolf skin, Ragnar,” Floki said, urgently, tightening his hold. "He is _ulfr_!"

Ragnar looked up, saw Athelstan’s face, and felt his body flush. “Gods be damned,” he whispered, caught by the animal stare.

“Let me send him to sleep again,” Floki counseled.

Shaking his head, Ragnar said, “No, hold him. Just a little longer.”

He rose to his knees and shed his smock, then untied the gathers of his leggings. They fell and he kicked them away. “If he wears the wolf, he seeks to mate,” Ragnar said, crawling up Athelstan’s body.

Floki inhaled deeply and grunted. His voice was still cracked and damaged, but the sharp edge of hunger was still audible. “He seeks to do the deed, Ragnar, not have it done.”

“I know,” Ragnar was at Athelstan’s mouth now, his own lips pulled back in feral challenge. They met with a bite, teeth clashing, catching flesh and drawing blood.

“Ragnar, you should not do this,” Floki warned.

“I want to.” Ragnar breathed, settling on Athelstan’s hips. “I want it, Floki. Release him.”

Floki shook his head and Ragnar lifted one hand to shove him back.

Wolf-walking allowed for strength and speed, and Athelstan used both to throw Ragnar off of him. He landed on his back, the air forced from his lungs, and Athelstan was above him before he could recover. On his hands and knees, the _ulfr_ lowered his head to sniff at Ragnar’s thighs and his cock, mouth open to catch the taste on his breath. Ragnar watched him, fear and arousal warring on his face as his own prick filled, rising up to lay against his belly.

When Athelstan bared his teeth again, Floki moved, thinking to separate them. Ragnar shouted, “No!”

A dark sound of danger, of hunger and mindless drive, filled the hut. The growl was not human. Neither was the light in Athelstan’s eyes.

“He will tear you to pieces, Ragnar,” Floki whispered, not moving.

“No, he won’t.”

Floki’s eyes flicked towards Ragnar’s face, saw the sureness there, and slowly eased himself away.

Ragnar nodded, just a slight movement of his head, and then slowly rolled onto his stomach. “Athelstan, come to me,” he called, softly.

He heard a whine, too dog-like, and felt Athelstan sniff his way up from the back of his knees, inside his thighs and up to their apex. When he felt the tentative lick, he pressed his forehead to the dirt and reeds below him with a moan. The flutter of tongue had him raising his ass, parting his legs for Athelstan to kneel between.

“ _Gods,_ ” he cried, hands digging into the hard packed soil as he was tasted, lapped from top to bottom. He arched his back and chuffed his breath, swaying closer to great the kiss. He was ready. He was so ready. “ _Athelstan, now.”_

Like the wolf he wore, Athelstan covered and pierced him at once. Ragnar’s head flung back and he yelled. He was no virgin, but it had been many a moon, and the pain was sharper than he’d remembered. He gritted his teeth as Athelstan began to move, hips snapping at a furious pace. Hands held his shoulders to keep him in place and the nails sliced into his skin. The high-pitched, reedy sound he heard now was from his own throat, for the hurt was only part of what he felt.

He groaned, reached for his own cock and worked it fast. All of Athelstan’s weight was upon him now and it pushed his cheek into floor. For all his renown, the glorious blood of Odin that moved in his veins, he whimpered and moaned like a woman. He was getting fucked, face down in the dirt, like a wolf’s bitch.

And it was _glorious_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ulfr_ \- wolf 
> 
> I'm using it to mean something a little different, not exactly a shape-shifter, but a man walking as a wolf. Hope that makes sense.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is talky, but I think you'll still find it interesting. 
> 
> I hope.
> 
> *crosses fingers*

The smell beneath his nose was earth. The taste on his tongue was sea. In his ears he heard the rushing of the wind. But the fire had, thankfully, receded.

Athelstan wondered briefly what he would see when he opened his eyes.

It was Floki. The man was staring, his eyes very wide and very dark. He crouched a few feet away, and puzzling was the disrepair of his clothing, the scratches at his throat, and the caginess in his manner. Floki’s lips moved soundlessly. His tongue swept over them before he spoke.

“Ragnar?”

Where was Ragnar?

The warmth beneath Athelstan’s cheek rumbled. Then shifted. Athelstan turned his face into the smooth, salty heat and bit down.

He heard a gasp and bit harder.

“Floki…”

Athelstan opened his eyes, peered out of the corner and smiled around what was caught between his teeth.

“No,” Floki said, shaking his head. “Not while he looks like that.”

There was a laugh and a hiss. “Athelstan, are you here?”

 _Yes_.

He thought he’d spoken, but what he heard was a feral whine. Opening his mouth, Athelstan licked and nuzzled his way up. He nosed at a crease, a thatch of hair, and pushed his face into the cauldron of scent.

“Mother Frigga. _Please_ , Floki!”

“If he bites me, I’ll bite you!”

A firm hand gripped the back of Athelstan’s neck at the same moment an arm went around his waist. He was lifted, pulled away from the smell and the heat. He pulled and growled and whined, but his strength was gone.

_Let me go!_

Floki’s arm went around his neck. “You can bring him back now. I’ve got him.”

Ragnar got to his knees, unsteady and dirty and nude. He reached for something and it came into view.

_No…I’m here…I’m here…_

Athelstan was shouting, screaming but only yelps and snarls came out. Ragnar crawled towards where he was held immobile by Floki’s arms and legs.

“Can you hear me?”

He tried to answer, looked into Ragnar’s eyes and fought with his lips and tongue to speak.

“Athelstan?”

_Ragnar!_

Ragnar reached out towards him and fingers brushed his cheek. His head turned and he snapped.

Wrapping the belt around his hand, Ragnar said, “I can see him. I can tell he’s there.”

“You have to do it. The wolf will not leave him,” Floki said, tightening his hold.

His air cut off and Athelstan fought harder. _Wait! No! I’m here! Wait!_

Ragnar’s face was strained but he brought the leather down.

A stipe of fire was laid across Athelstan’s chest. He stiffened, choked on the arm across his throat. There was another. And another. One landed on his arm, then on the palm of his hand.

_Stopstopstopgodplease!_

_Ah! Good. You’re here._

“What?” Athelstan blinked.

_I’ve waited a while, now._

The man that spoke sat on a stone, watching Athelstan with interest. He rested one elbow on his knee and brought a great tankard to his lips. His dark hair was streaked with silver and his eyes were black like ravens. He seemed mortal but there was something unsettling in those eyes. A savage, hungry look that set Athelstan’s nerves on edge.

“Who are you?” He took a step back, only to stumble as the ground gave way. It was only by throwing himself forward that he was able to avoid falling. From where he lay he looked around, seeing that they were alone atop a mountain, at its very peak. It was a long way down.

The man laughed, loud and boisterous, and offered to help Athelstan to his feet. “Bolverk will do,” he said.

Athelstan stared at the hand before him. He felt in his gut a strong distrust, that this man was deceiving him in some way, and hesitated.

“It’s just a hand up, boy. No need to worry.”

Had it shown on his face? He took the hand and was lifted with ease. After giving his thanks, Athelstan asked him, “Where are we?”

“Eh, I don’t know. It was quiet and we needed a place to talk,” Bolverk answered, carelessly. He took his seat again and lifted his drink. “You’ve been busy.”

Athelstan was confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Your name has been on the tongues and minds of everyone. I had to get away from it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Athelstan said, wrapping his arms around himself against the chill wind blowing. “I don’t even know where ‘here’ is. Who speaks of me?”

Bolverk looked at him, swept him from head to toe, and said, “You do seem mild, for one who captures the eye so. Tell me, is that truth or a clever jest?”

“I was taught that humility keeps men honest,” Athelstan answered.

“Yet you flounce the rules of our kingdom.”

Athelstan’s jaw dropped. “I break no laws, in any kingdom,” he protested, firmly. He felt suddenly sick, a greasy, cold feeling deep in his gut.

“Oh, rules have been broken. Who then, if not by you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know of what rules you speak.”

“Do you want to?” Bolverk asked him.

“Of course,” Athelstan answered. He kept the frustration he felt from his voice, but the keen desire for knowing could not be so dampened. “Knowledge is key in all things.”

“I can give you that,” Bolverk said. He smiled, a sly, playful grin that reminded Athelstan far too much of Ragnar.

“At what cost?”

“Ah, you do know some things. Knowledge comes with a price,” Bolverk said. “Come here.”

Athelstan took the few steps to stand before him.

“Kneel.”

“I would know the payment first.”

At this, Bolverk laughed again. “Only that you find the one who causes such turmoil in this realm. You will have the means to stop them, once I gift you with this. Is that agreeable to you?”

Athelstan thought a moment, then nodded.

“Then kneel.”

Once he was down, Athelstan became abruptly aware of the man’s solid, muscular frame. The span of his thighs was mere inches from his face and broad, heavy hands lay loose over Bolverk’s knees. He took a shaky breath and forced his eyes up.

Bolverk stared at him and something dangerous flickered over his face. Bending closer, looming over Athelstan and gave him that cunning smile once more.  “I begin to see how you’ve come to so much trouble. You have no notion of your power, do you?”

“I have no power,” Athelstan answered, swallowing. Bolverk smelled of burning wood and blood.

Fingers laced into his hair, clamped tight to his head. Thumbs pressed painfully into his temples.

“Oh, _Adalsteinn_ ,” the man breathed. “You have no idea.”

Athelstan felt lightning strike. He heard his flesh sizzle, smelled the storm it brought. He could taste smoke and feel flame. When he could see again, he looked into Ragnar’s eyes. The words came from deep within him, softened not by pain, exhaustion, or his even his own fear.

“ _What is the man, to me unknown, that has made me travel the troublous road?”_

Before Ragnar could answer, he fell into darkness.

 

***** 

 

“What day is it?”

Ragnar looked at Floki, who held Athelstan even though he was silent and still.

“It is the fifth, or will be, when the sun rises.”

Ragnar was slumped, on his knees in the middle of the room. “Athelstan was right,” he said, miserably. “This is going to kill him.”

“He’s healed from the marks, again,” Floki told him.

“Doesn’t matter.” Ragnar shook his head. “They burn him from the inside. There will be nothing left when they’re done.”

“He’s stronger than that, Ragnar. I know it.” Floki shifted Athelstan’s form until he cradled it more comfortably. “In truth, I begin to worry more for you. He grows even stronger, and you are weakening before my eyes.”

“It wasn’t like this with you. You did not scream, you were not…tortured. Gods, Floki, what are they doing to him?”

“We’ll find out, have faith,” Floki said, fervently.

Ragnar shook his head again.

“There is a reason. There is _always_ a reason.”

“Floki,” came a whisper.

Floki looked down at the body in his arms. “Priest?”

Athelstan’s eyes opened and they were calm and present. They swept over Floki, taking in the bruises on the man’s neck and the state of his clothes. “Floki,” he said, reaching up to touch the ring of shadows. “Floki, what happened?”

Glancing up at Ragnar before answering, Floki gave a quick grin. “You did,” he replied, turning his eyes back to Athelstan.

“ _I_ did?”

“You weren’t yourself, at the time,” Floki said.

Athelstan’s eyes were still calm, but they had gone wide. He sat up, ringed his fingers around Floki’s neck, and took a breath. There came an undercurrent of power, familiar and foreign, simultaneously.

Ragnar crawled forward, closer to the two of them. “Athelstan…what…?”

Athelstan blew it out his breath and Floki’s face softened, became a mask of pure joy and bliss. Ragnar saw the bruises beneath Athelstan’s hands grow lighter, fading until they remained no more. He traced Floki’s throat, stroking with a gentle touch and the other man gasped. Floki’s eyes grew sharp and aware once more, but the peaceful expression stayed on his face.

“I am using the gift I was given,” Athelstan whispered, turning his head to look at Ragnar.

“Gift?” Ragnar asked, stupidly. He was so tired and sore, in spirit as well as flesh, that what he witnessed made no sense. He was staring at Floki and didn’t see Athelstan move until they were face to face.

With a smile, one of tender indulgence, Athelstan cupped his face and leaned in. Their lips met and Ragnar groaned, for what filled him was warm and golden. It lifted him from the shadows, energized and healed him, made him whole and rested and…and hungry.  His stomach growled and he laughed into the chaste press of Athelstan’s lips.

Athelstan let him go, sitting on his heels and lowering his hands to his thighs. “I have so much to tell you, Ragnar,” he said, soft and calm and a little dazed. “But I would like a bath. And a proper meal.”

“Wait,” Floki said, now beside them. He put a hand on Athelstan’s arm. “That was not Loki.”

Eyes so big, so blue…bluer and brighter than…than anything. They were glowing.

“No,” Athelstan said. “It was not Loki. I met a man, or one I thought was a man, at first. He asked me questions, the same I have heard since this calling began. He told me I am spoken of in all the realms. That the _Aesir_ and _Vanir_ squabble like children because I fly and run and could from the beginning. They accuse each other of treachery, of gifting me with power not deserved.”

He looked at Floki. “I am being fought over by your gods. I find that…amusing.”

Though he did not sound amused. He sounded dismayed, confused, and frightened.

“It’s a good trick, isn’t it? To give me these gifts. The non-believer. The Christian. Not a man to make sons but a man to use as a woman. It’s very funny. Don’t you think it’s funny?”

Ragnar touched his face, put palm to cheek to turn his head. Their eyes met, the glow brightening when Athelstan registered who touched him. “It’s good, Athelstan. It’s wise. There is none better to bear the gifts.”

“No, Ragnar. They laugh at me. At you. We are a game and they find us entertaining, for now.”

Ragnar shook his head.

“Why?” Floki asked.

Athelstan’s eerily calm expression changed, became slyly arrogant. “That is what I must tell you, why the man gave me the light with which to heal you both, and myself.”

“Who was this man? What part does he play in this?” Ragnar found his anger returning with his strength.

“Bolverk,” Athelstan said, laughing. The sound was half-mad. “He said his name was Bolverk. But the moment he touched me, I knew who he really was.”

Floki sat, hard, as he whispered the name. Ragnar pressed his hands to his eyes.

“He said not to use his true name, but I see that I don’t need to, anyway,” Athelstan continued, still laughing, still glowing.

“And he told you this name.” Floki was aghast.

“He did.”

The men were silent. Stunned. Athelstan began to fidget. The light in his eyes changed from bluest blue to silver.

 “I’m hungry, Ragnar. May we eat?”

Ragnar nodded and began searching for his leggings.

Athelstan laughed again, drawing up on his haunches as his shoulders lowered. “Oh, Ragnar,” he said, fondly, “I said a _proper_ meal.”

“No,” Floki whispered. “Wait. You mustn’t take him.”

“Will you come with me?” Athelstan asked. His eyes were on Ragnar first, but they moved to Floki. There was a smile and a growl. “You can come, too, Floki. We’ll be a pack, and bring down the larger prey.”

“No, no, you can’t,” Floki said, more strongly.

Athelstan’s smile was feral again. With his glowing eyes, the effect was terrifying.

“Don’t make him do this. He would go mad,” Floki pleaded.

“Floki, what is it?” Ragnar asked.

“We’ll feed you meat. Listen!” Floki offered, hands outstretched, palms up. “We will feed you, from a fresh kill, but don’t take him into the trees. It would be a memory he couldn’t bear.”

Chewing his lip, Athelstan considered it. “Truly? He does not seek the kill?”

“Only for his food, and then only what he needs. He finds no glory in it.”

“The taste of blood would strengthen him, give him more than glory.”

The words began to make sense to Ragnar. He stared, overwhelmed. “ _Ullr.”_

The laugh they heard fell from Athelstan’s lips, but it was not him. “I brought him back across the snow, at the behest of my grand-father. I am not sure he needed the help, but I did enjoy the run.”

“What does your grand-father want with him?” Ragnar at last thought to ask.

“Hang me, if I know.” Ullr/Athelstan shrugged, losing some of the wolf look. “Are you certain he does not want to hunt?”

“Yes...certain,” Ragnar said.

“Odd little man,” Ullr/Athelstan said. He looked at Ragnar and winked, then blew a kiss to Floki. “Another time, then.”

Athelstan’s head dropped forward. There was a loud sigh and he raised it again. His eyes had the smallest shimmer.

“I grow weary of this. They wear me like a smock then pass me to the next, it’s maddening.” the man complained, frowning almost comically. Looking to Floki, he asked, “Can I tell them to stop so that I can clean and feed myself? Or must I persuade them to let me be while they slip me on and off like a cloak? ”

Floki stared.

Ragnar began to laugh, and didn’t stop for a long time.

 

***** 

 

“So, you’ve been commissioned,” Ragnar said around a mouthful of goat meat.

Athelstan thought for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

“Do you receive payment for this?”

“I think being left alone will be payment enough, Ragnar,” Athelstan said, laughing a little. He felt immensely better. He did not hurt, nor was he weighed down by exhaustion. He was clean and warmly clothed. He was fed and watered. His mind was sharp and his heart was full as his stomach.

The burn was still there, but he now wondered if that was caused more by Ragnar than by the gods.

“They won’t leave you alone. You were still called,” Floki argued. He watched Athelstan closely, but that was not strange. Floki had always watched him, always cataloged his movements and his words, seeking ways to fragment his faith. What was strange, though, was how grateful Athelstan now was for his attention. It had been frightening, once, to be so closely scrutinized by this man who spoke to gods and trees and birds. Now it was concern he saw in Floki’s eyes and it warmed him to his core.

Athelstan nodded. “I know, but that I can do.”

He saw doubt cross both men’s faces.

“My pain has been at the hands of others who wanted me, not the _Nornir._ I passed their test. I mastered their call by the end of the third day…after you took me to the cauldron,” Athelstan explained. “I found my raven on my own, called it to me, in fact. I flew all the way to the Bifrost and landed at Heimdallr’s feet. I flew home just the same.”

He put his elbows on the table and leaned in closer. “What has been done to me was not because of the calling. I was being offered up for taking. Bartered, in a way, and those interested in purchase wished to test me. Their tests included pain and pleasure, guiding me into dangerous places, getting me lost, and keeping me bound to another realm. Each time I have found my way back to you. With your help.”

He looked at Ragnar when he said this, watched the man’s eyes narrow and his lips curl in a smile.

“Bolverk gave me…”

“Call him by his name,” Floki interrupted. “You may as well. We knew it as soon as you told us.”

Cocking his head and taking a breath, Athelstan started again. “He told me not to, so I will abide. He gave the gifts temporarily. He wants the culprit, the one who threw me into the midst of his realm as a prize, for it is causing so much strife and discord he fears for the balance.”

“He fears you will bring down Ragnarok?” Floki asked, jeeringly.

“Nothing so grand, I assure you,” Athelstan said, laughing. “No, his need is for control. What battles are fought on their soil are by his design only. He is angry that his word is being flouted and wants it to stop. Also, I think he’s tired of all the talk. It has been busy there, loud and uncomfortable to the Allfather.”

Floki blinked, made a sour face. “You mean to say, he gave you this power to shut the other gods up?”

“Yes, Floki. That is exactly why I have been given it.” Athelstan couldn’t help his grin.

“You have no children, friend,” Ragnar said, also smiling. “There are days I would sacrifice _you_ for peace and quiet in my own house.”

“This is why he punishes Loki, isn’t it?” Athelstan was filling his cup. “Why he compounded grievance upon grievance until Loki sent one of his sons to _Helheim_? Control. He is greatest of them, after all, why can’t he keep control? It vexes him.”

Sullen, Floki answered, “You make him sound like he is a child, having a tantrum.”

Athelstan grinned, again. It felt so good to smile. “He’s _bored_ , Floki. Tired of his station and his responsibility. He longs for adventure and discovery…” His eyes sought Ragnar as his voice faded. “He seeks surrogates to carry out his desires, for he will father no more children here or there.”

Ragnar gave him a nod. And a wink.

“The clearing, the magic there, it indeed came from Loki. He did not gift it, merely sent it through me to save me. I had been dropped into the Niflieim, off of the path and into the bog. I was trapped by the mire and would have surely been there forever of not for his intervention. He pulled me free, warmed me and enervated me with his magic, and sent me home. That was when the talk began.”

“Talk of you?” Floki asked. Ragnar stayed silent.

“Yes. He told the tale of what he’d found and it was revealed that I…”Athelstan paused, his cheeks turning pink. “I was…”

Floki tilted his head and raised his brows. Ragnar just smiled.

“That I was a gift to you, Ragnar, which you had finally deigned to accept,” Athelstan continued.

Ragnar’s eyes darkened and Athelstan felt warm and breathless.

“After Loki’s tale, my spirit was flung random to different realms, different halls. I was able to leave on my own, to make my way home under my own power, save for two times. Once, under the mountains in _Svartalfaheimr,_ where I was bound by chains that came from the very rocks. They cut me, dug down to the bone.”

“They who bound me said I was feared in my own realm and that someone sought to trap my spirit away from here.  They sought to keep me there and use what power I had for their own purposes. It felt like I was there for days. I had to pull my own skin off to free myself.” Athelstan shuddered and reached out to Ragnar. “I would not have been able to do it without the sound of your voice.”

Taking his hand, Ragnar told him, “I am your tether, Athelstan. It is my purpose.”

“You’re more than that,” Athelstan whispered. He cleared his throat and continued. “While you slept, I was sent to Freyr.”

“Freyr!” Floki cried.

“His influence, his…torture, caused me to seek…to hurt you,” Athelstan said, his voice breaking as he reached out to Floki with his other hand. “I’m sorry, Floki. I was so desperate. He filled me with want and need and cast me out with no way of ending it. The wolf came to endure it, saving my mind, but I had no control. I’m sorry.”

Floki clasped his hand in both his own. “I could see it in your eyes, child. I knew it was not you.”

“I tried to kill you.” Athelstan was near to tears.

“And you healed me, yes? I have faced worse, Athelstan, and lived beyond it without magic. Rest your heart.”

Taking another deep breath and a moment to steady himself, Athelstan calmed and finished his tale. “Freyr asked who sent me. How I got there. I didn’t remember, then. I still suffered from my time beneath the mountain. He put within me such desire…I had no idea it could cause so much _pain_ …and when he knew I was sent without my will he lashed out. I was thrown far and I could not catch myself with wing or fur. I fell back here and was able to take the wolf skin, but was then unable to cast it off.”

“I knew what to do, Athelstan. I wanted to do it.” Ragnar was smiling again, his eyes wistful and bright.

“It is beyond your duties as my tether, Ragnar,” Athelstan said. He squeezed Ragnar’s fingers. “I thank you and I apologize, too. I know I hurt you. I may have even frightened you.”

“A little on both accounts, but I was able to bear it.”

Athelstan laughed, softly. “True, and I don’t think you hated it, but it was not me. I would never hurt you, a-purpose.”

He said the last as his eyes locked with his master’s. Ragnar stared back at him, reflecting the same swell of emotion.

“I cannot say I won’t do the same, for I find great pleasure in hurting you, some. But,” Ragnar grinned and tightened his grip on Athelstan’s fingers, “I won’t leave you without pleasure, ever.”

“Bolverk showed me all of this. He showed me the days leading up to my capture, how you traveled and what risk you took. He showed me life without you and asked me if I would chose to return home,” Athelstan said. He looked then at Floki. “To the god of my people. I told him no.”

Floki sat back, stunned.

“I do not disbelieve, for I have felt His power, but I see now how fated it was that I should come here. I was _meant_ to be here. That man, Ragnar, the one who wanted to buy me when I was a child,” Athelstan leaned closer, speaking so low that the others had to bend to him to hear. “That man was the Seer.”

 

***** 

 

Ragnar burned.

Not the same burning that tore Athelstan apart, nor the burn of lust and passion which he knew well. This was fury, honest, vengeful wrath. He had been lied to, by Haraldson, by the Seer, by his own gods. He felt such rage he was nearly blind with it, but he sat quiet and waited, and listened.

“Haraldson sent that man to bring me here. He had just taken power from the old earl and he had his Seer, but he wanted more,” Athelstan was saying. He looked at Floki. “You had just been called, but he didn’t want a half-mad wildling – his words, not mine – he wanted Seidr magic he could control. He wanted someone he could teach to obey him in all things. More than a slave, he wanted a disciple.”

That made Ragnar even angrier. “And so he sought a child?”

“Children are easier to mold, Ragnar,” Floki said. He reached for the ale and poured his cup full. “Easier to break and build as you like.”

“He had children of his own! Why not use one of them?” Ragnar asked, leaning over the table.

Floki squinted at him. “Do you know how to break a man?”

Ragnar nodded.

“You break a child the same way. He would never do that to his own blood.”

“He did worse,” Athelstan whispered, his face plainly showing his horror. “He traded his sons for the knowledge. Gave their spirits to the dark elves. He killed his sons and buried them so shamefully that they would never see their gods. He did that to his own children.”

None of them spoke for a moment. The thought was so heinous, so unnatural as to make Ragnar bite back sickness.

“But he did not get you,” Floki finished, softly.

“No, my mother told him that I was sick with fever. She said I was close to death, and her other children would soon follow. Two days later, they gave me to Father Cuthbert and we left Essex for Lindisfarne. I never thought to ask why so far away,” Athelstan said. He was distressed, but doggedly continued. “He came back after a week and saw everyone healthy and that only I was gone. It was less than a year after I left that my entire family died of fever. They died protecting me, for no one knew where I was to tell me. I only found out two summers past.”

Ragnar wanted to comfort him but Athelstan hardened his gaze through his tears. “When he returned, Haraldson demanded he seek another. It was while he searched that Haraldson burned him, brought him so close to death that his spirit hovered between realms. He wandered lost but did not die. When he found his way back, Haraldson’s lackey had become a Seer.”

Ragnar stood. He had to move, even if it was to simply pace the floor. “He was earl for more than ten years, since we were barely men. We never saw this madness, not until I started asking for permission to raid.”

“He did not want you to raid because he didn’t want the truth of what he’d done to be known,” Athelstan said. “He feared if you went west, you would somehow find out.”

Floki laughed “He was right.”

“But Haraldson’s dead now. None of this should matter,” Ragnar said, crossing his arms and standing beside the fire.

“His Seer could be the one.” Athelstan turned to look at him. “He could be causing this.”

“How?” Ragnar asked.

“I don’t know yet, but you said that those who are called need their tether. That they could die without them,” Athelstan said, rising. He stepped closer, coming within arm’s reach of Ragnar. “Or go mad.”

“It’s possible, but he is no spring lamb. The Seer is strong. He’s walked the realms for a long time.”

“Madness knows no age, Ragnar,” Floki told him. He was watching them both from the table. “He had his tether for all those years. We can’t imagine what it must be like without him, having depended on him for so long.”

“And if he knows, now, that I was the one he was sent for,” Athelstan added, “that he was punished for not retrieving…”

“How do we find out, then, hmm?” Ragnar questioned, moving to stand before him. “We can’t just ask him, can we?”

Athelstan swallowed. “When I’m called again, you will have to go to him. He will be travelling, as well, if he is the one taking me to these places.”

“Then what?”

“I will have to confront him,” Athelstan said. He looked frightened but resolved. “And I have to do it before the ninth day. That is when the powers bestowed upon me will return.”

“So we have only days to do this, till sun sets on the third.”

“Yes.”

“What happens if we can’t?”

Athelstan shook his head. “I don’t know. I…I suppose I’ll continue to find myself flung from realm to realm, hall to hall. Until someone claims me.”

Ragnar turned in a fury. He grabbed Athelstan’s arms and shook him. “I claim you! I claimed you from the start! I never once thought of letting you go. They know this.”

“They play with you, Ragnar.”

“No! Odin would not allow it.”

“Odin cannot stop it!” Athelstan said with a sharp laugh. His hands landed on Ragnar’s arms then, clutching tight.  “He came to me for help reigning in his children, his courtiers. Me! A Christian, a slave, weak and lacking in all they value! I would say I am his final hope!”

“He chose you because your mind is different. Your thoughts are not always on conquest renown, or songs of honor. Those things mean little to you,” Floki said, softly. He had come to stand close, shadowed and silent until upon them. “It is as foreign to our gods as it is to us. The god you follow gave you humility, perseverance, relentless curiosity and a boundless capacity to forgive. They are not our values, true, but they are strengths."

Ragnar pulled Athelstan to his chest, who then buried his face into Ragnar’s neck. He ran his fingers through Athelstan’s curls, pressed kisses to a now tear-stained cheek. “You are not weak. That you stand with us, clear-eyed and clear-headed in the midst of your calling, proves it.”

“And you have an advantage,” Floki added, with just a touch of glee.

“What is that?” Athelstan asked, muffled by Ragnar’s shoulder. He didn’t even raise his head, content to let Ragnar stroke his hair.

“You’re still a slave,” Floki told him. “They’ll never think you worthy, and you will prove them wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many questions still standing about Haraldson, the Seer, and how they wound up together. We'll never get answers to those, alas. I'm a little resentful about that. But, a man once said that's what fanfic is for...


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